


We Are the Crossroads

by PixChuu22



Series: Cathedral [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Angst, Bonding, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega John, Omega Verse, Post Mpreg, Post-Reichenbach, Top John, Top Sherlock, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 53,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2102079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are getting their unusual life together back on track after the betrayal of Mary Morstan and Janine Hawkins the year before. Things are going well until two threats invade their flat: Charles Augustus Magnussen, businessman and blackmailer, and Colonel Sebastian Moran, accomplished sniper and right-hand man to long-dead Jim Moriarty. Then an accident leaves John unable to help Sherlock and the Mated pair must find a way to protect each other when it feels like everything is against them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/noQ247z.jpg)

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_"Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending to sleep, while I'm in the other room. Imagine my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots in the slatted light. I'm thinking_ My plant, his chair, the ashtray that we bought together. _I'm thinking_ This is where we live _." - Richard Siken, "Snow and Dirty Rain"_

John Watson had not expected to have a row with Sherlock Holmes that morning, and certainly not over the topic of recreational drug use. He had come off his Heat just three days before, and usually the exhaustion that followed a Heat (combined with all the emotional intimacy that followed lots of really enthusiastic, fulfilling sex) kept both of them in fine moods for at least a week after. 

But John had gone into Sherlock's bedroom to put away one of Sherlock's dressing gowns which he'd discovered after starting his own laundry. The dressing gown had been crumpled dejectedly in the dryer, beginning to wrinkle from how long it had been neglected. John had shaken it out and gone upstairs with it to put it in Sherlock's wardrobe. 

They had been a Mated pair for just over six months. Well, a re-Mated pair. Their first Mating bond had been broken with an experimental drug when Sherlock had gone into hiding to destroy a criminal network and had needed John to believe he was actually dead. There were still days when _that_ little bit of history pricked at John and made him want to throttle the other man. For a genius, Sherlock could be such an idiot. 

Thankfully, John had forgiven Sherlock for his trick and they had bonded for a second time in the spring after Sherlock returned from his presumed death. Of course, there had been some murders, and attempted murders, between Sherlock returning from the dead and their 'happily ever after' being achieved, but it was easier for John to _not_ remember Sherlock hanging from chains, his body bruised and bloodied. It was easier to _not_ remember holding a gun on a psychopath while his fiancée pointed a gun at him. John preferred to bury those memories. 

John spent more nights in Sherlock's room than his own. He no longer felt awkward walking into that bedroom and neatening up. That was the reason he found the drugs. 

They were tucked on the top shelf in the wardrobe. When John hadn't seen a spare hanger for the dressing gown, he'd tried running his hand over the shelf in the hopes that there might be an extra hanger hiding up there. Instead, he found the tiny twist of plastic cling film with a small amount white powder in it. 

For a second, John's vision also went white, fury sending blood pounding into his head. When he was able to see again, he carefully set the small bundle of drugs on the foot of the bed and began searching through Sherlock's bedroom methodically, looking for more. 

Sherlock came bursting into the flat a few minutes later. He'd been wrapping up the last bit of a case with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, something "simple, to revive my mind after being Heat-addled for the last four days," he had said when he'd flown from the house that morning. "No, you don't need to come, John. There are only three possible scenarios for this case, and I will know which is correct once I've had the chance to examine the dead woman's pocketbook." 

John could hear Sherlock pounding up the stairs as he carefully pushed Sherlock's sock drawer closed. He had searched every nook and cranny in the bedroom that he could think of but the single twist of plastic cling film from the wardrobe was the only illicit substance that he could find. 

"John!" Sherlock called, and John could picture what the taller man was doing as he called out. He was undoubtedly slipping smoothly out of his Belstaff, tossing both it and his scarf onto the coat rack near the door. He would be flushed from the chill in the early October air, his dark curls ruffled and displaced by the breezy day. "I was right, John! It was the postman, just as I'd suspec -" 

Sherlock's voice broke off as he stepped into the doorway of the bedroom. John was standing next to the foot of the bed and the small bundle of white powder, his arms crossed and his face stony. 

"It's for a case," Sherlock said immediately, moving forward to retrieve the drugs. John caught him by the wrist as he reached, holding him gently but unbreakably, preventing Sherlock from taking the tiny sachet. 

"You should have told me if you were getting close to doing this again," John said, each word very low and precise as he fought to control his temper. "You should have come to me before you even considered buying heroin again." 

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock said, trying to twist his wrist out of John's grip. "I told you, it's for a _case_." 

" _What_ case?" John asked, letting go of Sherlock's hand but staying next to the drugs, not allowing the other man a chance to grab it. 

"Lady Smallwood's case. She came by yesterday to discuss the blackmail issue with her husband's letters -" 

"Yes, I was there," John said, his voice still full of barely contained fury. "What does that have to do with _this?_ " John pointed angrily at the white powder. 

"Magnussen must be willing to negotiate with me over the return of the letters. He never negotiates with someone unless he's established a person's weaknesses - their 'pressure point,' he calls it. I need him to believe I am a drug addict to lure him in so that I can negotiate for Lady Smallwood's husband's letters." 

"When did you have time to buy heroin between Lady Smallwood coming by yesterday evening and now?" 

"I went out while you were sleeping," Sherlock said, making a face as if he couldn't believe John needed to ask that. 

John could feel a vein in his temple throbbing and he took a deep breath, flexing his fingers. "You sneaked out in the middle of night from our bed?" 

"I couldn't very well go buy drugs this morning. I knew I'd be leaving first thing to help Lestrade. He wouldn't understand if I showed up at a crime scene with heroin in my pocket." 

" _Lestrade_ wouldn't understand?" John shouted, losing his grip on his temper. " _I_ don't understand! Sherlock, were you actually planning to get high?" 

Sherlock's eyes slid sideways, grabbing a quick, almost nervous glance at John. "I was going to speak to you first," Sherlock said, suddenly sounding cautious as he realized that he might have gone too far. 

John grabbed the twist of cling film from the foot of the bed and shoved past Sherlock, his steps hard as he moved to the loo. He tore the plastic open with his fingernails and shook all the powder into the toilet before flushing it away. He rinsed the cling film and his hands in the sink while Sherlock stood in the bathroom doorway and watched, silent. 

When John finally finished, he tossed the wet bit of plastic into the trash bin and turned to glare at Sherlock. 

"That was just over 100 pounds worth of heroin," Sherlock said mildly. 

"If I _ever_ find that you've brought drugs into our flat again, Sherlock, I will bodily drag you to rehab and chuck you into a room myself. I will _not_ allow the Alpha to whom I'm Mated to become an addict." 

" _It was for a case!_ " Sherlock shouted, throwing his arms up as he spun away from the bathroom. 

" _Not even for a case!_ " John shouted back, pursuing Sherlock to the sitting room. Sherlock threw himself into his black leather armchair, his face twisted with anger. John took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. When he spoke again, his voice was more modulated. "You are _better_ than that, Sherlock." 

"It was - " Sherlock began, and John held a hand up, stopping him. 

"Even for a case, you are _better than that_." 

Sherlock looked up at John, the anger on his face slowly melting away and leaving him looking tired and resigned. "Fine. I will not bring drugs into the flat." 

"Or do them anywhere outside of the flat," John said. 

"Oh, for God's -" 

"Say it, Sherlock." 

"I will neither buy nor consume any illegal drugs either in or outside of the flat," Sherlock said, sounding annoyed. "Is that what you needed to hear?" 

"Yes," John said, the tension going out of his body. He stepped over to his own armchair and settled into it. Months ago, it been moved close enough to Sherlock's that John could reach out and take Sherlock's hand off the armrest, twining his fingers through his Mate's. "Thank you." 

"This will complicate Lady Smallwood's case unnecessarily," Sherlock pointed out, stroking his thumb across John's knuckles as he frowned off into the distance. "I will have to find some other way of convincing Magnussen to negotiate." 

"You'll think of something," John said, enjoying the brush of Sherlock's thumb. It surprised him sometimes how much he desired Sherlock's touch even outside of his Heat. At first, he had assumed it was something to do with them being newly Mated, but they'd been in a stable Mating bond for the last six months and he still often felt like an addict seeking a fix with every brush of Sherlock's fingers against his skin, every soft kiss, every press of hip to hip anytime they sat on the couch watching bad telly. Maybe it was just the culmination of four years of John wanting someone and believing he'd never have him. Perhaps when another four years had gone by, John would no longer react to the little, incidental touches so strongly... but he somewhat hoped he always would. 

"I told you last night that Magnussen is more than just a newspaper owner. He knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond," Sherlock said, giving John's hand a quick squeeze before releasing it and rising from his armchair to walk to the desk and power on his laptop. He sat down in front of it, tapping a few keys as the laptop chimed pleasantly in response to whatever commands he was giving it. "He is the Napoleon of blackmail and he has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. Its name is Appledore." 

Sherlock turned the laptop towards John, who rose from his chair, stepping up beside Sherlock. He stood close enough to rest his shoulder against Sherlock's as he leaned forward to look at the screen, studying the photographs and house plans for a moment before glancing over at Sherlock. 

"I'm not sure what this has to do with you doing drugs again," John admitted and Sherlock sighed. 

"Are you still stuck on that? I've just told you that the Western world is run from _this_ house and you're still stuck on the drugs?" 

"Probably for awhile, yeah," John said, standing upright again. 

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling before looking back at the laptop screen. "This house is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world," he explained, glancing back over his shoulder at John. "The Alexandria Library of secrets and scandals - and _none_ of it is on a computer. He's smart - computers can be hacked. It's all on hard copy in vaults underneath that house; and, as long as it is, the personal freedom of _anyone_ you've ever met is a fantasy." 

"And you were going to break into it after getting high?" John asked. Sherlock shut the laptop abruptly. 

"I need him to believe that I am an addict. I need him to want to use my supposed drug addiction as leverage on me so that he will approach me and I can begin negotiating the return of Lady Smallwood's letters. I am not _actually_ an addict, but it would help the case if he believed me to be so. Do you understand now, John?" 

Before John could respond, there came a gentle tap and a familiar "Ooo hoo!" from the sitting room door. Mrs. Hudson stepped into the flat, looking slightly frazzled. 

"Oh, that was the doorbell," she said, pointing behind her and back down the stairs. "Couldn't you hear it?" 

"It's in the fridge," Sherlock admitted, and John sighed; he'd thought that was what he saw this morning when he was going after the milk for his first cup of tea. "It kept ringing." 

"Oh, that's not a _fault_ , Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded. 

"Who is it?" John asked. 

Mrs. Hudson drew in a quick, anxious breath and Sherlock rose slowly from the desk, his expression sharpening as she said, "It's a Mr. Magnussen. Isn't he the... the newspaper man?" 

"What? Now?" Sherlock almost threw himself at the window that overlooked Baker Street, his brow furrowing with consternation. "Why on earth would he be here now? What could he possibly think he has to leverage against me? John took my drugs." 

"Drugs?" Mrs. Hudson repeated, looking alarmed. 

"Nevermind," John said quickly. "Sherlock, what should we do?" 

"Well, invite him up, of course. Mrs. Hudson, tell him to come up directly. John, come over here with me by the fireplace. We need to look convincingly sure of ourselves." 

Mrs. Hudson headed back down the stairs and John walked slowly over to join Sherlock, raising one eyebrow as he did. "We're going to play confident, is that it?" 

"It's a good way to throw him off his game, whatever that game is. Hush, now. I need to be able to _think._ " 

John shook his head faintly but kept any further comment to himself, standing calmly next to his Mate as they waited for the man that, the evening before, Sherlock had described as a shark and the one criminal that could turn his stomach. 

Three men in dark suits walked into the flat first, their eyes scanning the entire room in segments, ear pieces obvious above their ears. They were clearly a security detail for Magnussen. After a moment, they turned their attention to the two men standing in front of the fireplace. 

"Oh, go ahead," Sherlock said, weariness dripping from his voice as he unfolded his arms and spread them. One of the security men stepped forward to frisk him and John sighed, following Sherlock's lead, pleased that he'd left his gun upstairs in his bedside table that morning. 

Magnussen stepped into the room as the security men finished frisking the Alpha and Omega. Even from across the sitting room, John could smell intense Alpha hormones radiating off of Magnussen. He was a man who enjoyed overpowering others and it fed his Alpha nature, increasing his normal hormone load. Fresh off his Heat, John's nose was still more sensitive than it would be in a week or two. He coughed lightly, rubbing at his nose as he tried to adjust to the almost physical presence of the Alpha hormones. Sherlock's eyes flicked to John and then over to Magnussen and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. 

"Mr. Magnussen," Sherlock said in greeting. "I am surprised by your presence at our flat. I had always thought that you preferred meeting people in your office." 

"This _is_ my office," Magnussen murmured, his eyes meandering around the room. His security men had come into the flat and scanned for threats. Magnussen seemed to let his eyes wander the room as if he possessed it just by looking at it, lazy and confident all at once. "Well, it is _now_." 

John raised his eyebrows, surprised at how brash Magnussen was being. He shot a quick glance at Sherlock, but Sherlock shook his head faintly. All right, Sherlock was in charge. John would keep his silence. 

"It is actually advantageous that you would drop in unexpectedly," Sherlock said, clasping his hands together behind his back, looking for all the world like a man engaged in a relaxing chat. Only the whitening of his knuckles showed how tense he actually was as he watched Magnussen take a seat on the couch across the sitting room from them. "I was approached yesterday by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. She asked me to intercede with you on her behalf in regards to some old letters of her husband's that are currently in your possession -" 

"You and Dr. Watson have been Mated for... just over six months, correct?" Magnussen asked, reaching out to lift a newspaper off the coffee table in front of him. 

"I.... yes," Sherlock confirmed, obviously thrown by the sudden question. 

"How did you manage to be flatmates for two years without Mating? I know that you would leave the flat to avoid temptation... but the scent of an Omega in Heat is nearly irresistible. The buildup of pheromones takes weeks. You must have been going quietly mad the entire time he was approaching Heat. How did you resist it?" 

John went ramrod stiff, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The question was beyond rude, but more than that, John hadn't realized that he'd been torturing Sherlock for weeks before his Heats had reached the point that John was aware of them. He could feel a flush creeping up his cheeks and he fought not to look over at his Mate. 

"My body is merely transport," Sherlock said, waving one hand dismissively. "Until he had fully engaged my mind, his Heats were of no consequence." 

Magnussen turned to slowly look John over. His eyes gave nothing, flat and dead like the eyes of a corpse even as they slid slowly down John's body and then back up to his face. A faint smile twitched up one corner of Magnussen's mouth. 

"Lovely, although a little old. Are you planning to breed him eventually? You'll need to move quickly. I've heard conception after 40 becomes tricky. But then, John Watson has proven himself to be quite fertile in the past." 

The air went out of John all at once and he found himself struggling to keep his feet. How could Magnussen know...? _No one_ knew! The records should have been kept sealed; John had been a minor at the time. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock asked, glancing over at John, his expression puzzled. John was fighting to breathe evenly, his head spinning faintly as waves of shock trembled through him. 

"He hasn't told you? Well, well, well." 

"Told me what?" Sherlock asked, body growing tense as he realized how lost in the conversation he was. 

"Perhaps you should tell your _Mate_ ," Magnussen prompted, letting the last word come out almost painfully sharply. He stood from the couch, brushing his hands over his suit jacket as if worried that it had been soiled from his brief contact with the couch. 

Sherlock glanced between John and Magnussen, his eyebrows drawing down as he struggled with his desire to pursue the mystery before him or to continue pressing Magnussen. After a moment, his expression cleared and he turned back to Magnussen. "I've been asked to negotiate the return of those letters. I'm aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents - " 

"We do not need to discuss the letters now, Mr. Holmes. I believe you will find you have more pressing issues to discuss with your bonded Mate. Ask him about the baby. Ask him about the Omega Unborn Protection Act." Magnussen stepped toward the front door, pausing for a moment to glance back at Sherlock. "Tell Lady Elizabeth I might need those letters, so I'm keeping them. Goodbye." 

He walked out, followed by his three security men, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the flat. As soon as he could, John stumbled over to his armchair and collapsed into it, putting his face into his hands as he fought to take even breaths. 

"Damn," Sherlock muttered softly, going over to shut the door a little harder than strictly necessary, glaring at the closed door as if he wanted to open it so he could try slamming it. "What was that all about, John? What baby? What is the Omega... Something Act?" 

"The Omega Unborn Protection Act. It's something that was put together by Alphas back when Omegas were little more that property. It's been on the books for ages, although it almost never has cause to be dug up. It's related to what should be done to an Omega who aborts a pregnancy." 

Sherlock had gone still, his eyes unfocused as he stared at the shut sitting room door. "What does that have to do with you?" 

"Because when I was 16, I got pregnant during a Heat. And I had an abortion." 


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh," Sherlock said, his voice soft and completely devoid of emotion. "How?"

"I'd told an Alpha classmate when I felt the Heat coming on and she sneaked into my house halfway through the Heat while my family was out. We were young, stupid, and didn't use any protection. When I learned I was pregnant, I sought out an illegal abortion with my mum's help. The records were meant to be sealed since I was a minor and since the doctor stood to lose everything if it came out that he'd helped an Omega terminate a pregnancy."

"But Magnussen found out," Sherlock said, turning slowly from the door to look at John.

"Apparently," John said, taking a deep breath and rubbing his palms over the arms of his chair.

"What does the Omega Unborn Protection Act say, exactly?" Sherlock asked, coming over to stand next to John, his hands clasped behind his back.

"That any Omega who seeks an abortion is to be given over by their Alpha for capital punishment. It legalized the murder of Omegas who try to escape unwanted pregnancies and guaranteed that Omegas would remain glorified breeders. It's very old, but no one has ever bothered getting rid of it."

"But you said it's rarely enacted."

"The last time an Omega was killed for seeking an illegal abortion - not for having one, just for _pursuing_ one - was 2001. She was given a lethal injection and her Alpha, who tried to protect her secret, was castrated."

"Why have you never mentioned this to me?" Sherlock asked. His voice was curious and surprisingly gentle. John looked up at the dark haired man and saw no recrimination in Sherlock's face.

"For one thing, I thought the records were safe from ever being found out. And, back when we were just flatmates, it didn't seem right to mention it to you."

"And once we were bonded?"

"I was protecting you," John said simply. "I never thought it would affect our lives, and if the secret ever did come out, you could honestly deny having had any knowledge of it."

"And now Magnussen knows," Sherlock said, reaching out to brush his fingers lightly through John's short hair. John leaned his head into the touch, reassured by the simple sweep of fingertips. "Pressure points..."

"Right, you said that he likes having a pressure point on everyone he meets."

"That explains why Magnussen stopped by so suddenly today. Your past abortion would count as a pressure point against us both. If it comes out, you stand to lose your life."

"And you stand to lose your bollocks," John said, trying to make a joke. From the way Sherlock's head whipped round, though, John could tell the joke had fallen flat.

"As if I care about that," Sherlock said, his brows lowering over his eyes slightly. "I care about losing you, John. I spent two years running around the globe trying to protect you and then I spent two weeks in hell trying to track down people intent on separating us forever. Did none of that convince you of how ardently I admire and love you?"

"Wait," John said, his face tightening. "Did you... just quote _Pride &Prejudice_ at me?"

"Is that why the words are familiar? It doesn't change the truth of them. Honestly, John, what more do I have to do to convince you of the depth of my feelings for you? I cannot give any more of myself to you; you already possess everything. I could try to mimic the shallow outpourings of devotion from the shows we watch on the telly, but I'm afraid it would come across as false from me."

"I wouldn't want you to, anyway," John admitted, reaching up to intertwine their fingers. "Even though you don't always say the things most people would want to hear, _I_ know what you mean."

"Good," Sherlock said. "Then can we please waste no more time on this topic and move forward with what needs to be done to not only retrieve Lady Smallwood's letters but also whatever information Magnussen has on your abortion?"

John huffed out a quick laugh, but he was unsurprised. Sherlock was not a romantic. Sherlock was not a believer in declarations of love and lingering kisses and candlelit dinners. Sherlock felt that John was sure of his devotion and would remain sure of Sherlock's devotion simply because Sherlock had not informed him of any change. "You said all his information is kept in hard copies in his home?"

"Below Appledore, yes," Sherlock confirmed, releasing John's hand to walk over and retrieve his laptop from the desk. "I would guess that Lady Smallwood's letters and your file would both be kept in the vaults beneath." Sherlock sat in his armchair, settling his laptop on his knees. His fingertips flew across the keys and he stared at the screen, his face a mask of concentration. The silence stretched for several long minutes before John rose from his chair.

"Right. I'm hungry. I'm going to head out and get something to eat. Do you want anything?"

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, still focused on the laptop.

"I didn't think so," John said, grabbing his jacket from the coat rack by the sitting room door. "If you change your mind, text me."

John briefly debated sitting down to eat somewhere, but he finally decided that he would be happier eating in the flat. He headed to Angelo's, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket and wishing he'd thought to grab a scarf; it was early October and the air was getting more of a bite to it now as fall slid towards the colder temperatures of winter.

It was a relief to step into the warmth of Angelo's and be greeted by the owner like a longtime friend. John answered Angelo's questions about how he and Sherlock were getting on while he put in his order, adding something for Sherlock at the last moment. While Sherlock did still argue that digestion slowed his thoughts, John had learned that bribery could frequently inspire Sherlock to eat at least a little, even when he was in the middle of a case.

John headed back towards the flat with bags of food dangling from his hand, his breath billowing as the cool afternoon moved towards evening. He was halfway back to the flat when his phone buzzed in his pocket. John fumbled both bags into one hand, trying to get his phone out of his pocket without tipping over any of the takeaway containers inside the bags. It was hardly surprising that he ended up running into another pedestrian.

John swore as he lost his grip on his phone. He grabbed for it and ended up dropping the bags.

"Of course," he muttered, disgusted, as he swiped his phone off the pavement and checked the screen to make sure he hadn't cracked or scratched it.

"I am _so_ sorry," an apologetic voice said, and John glanced up to take in the worried face of the man with whom he'd collided. Tall and blond with a narrow, contrite face, the man was utterly forgettable. He obviously didn't think the same of John, though; he narrowed his eyes, staring hard at the shorter man. "Hey, don't I know you?"

"No, I don't think so," John said. "Sorry about running into you; I wasn't paying attention."

"No, I know your face. You're familiar... oh, my God. You're John Watson. From the newspapers! You and the detective... something Holmes?"

"Sherlock," John said, pasting a tight-lipped smile to his face. "Yeah. I'm John Watson."

"You two solve proper criminal cases, like James Bond," the man said.

"Not exactly," John said, his smile becoming slightly warmer in the face of obvious hero-worship. "I'm afraid it's not quite that exciting."

"Oh, I bet it _is_ ," the man enthused. He held out his hand, smiling. "My name's Seb."

John took the other man's hand, giving it a quick shake. "John, but you know that. Look, sorry about crashing into you. I wasn't watching where I was going and now I'll have to go get dinner again as punishment for my own stupidity." John looked down at the tipped containers spilling food onto the pavement, his mouth pressing into a line of annoyance.

"Oh, hell," Seb responded, also surveying the mess. "Let me pay for it, please. It was partially my fault. I was looking down at my phone instead of watching where I was going."

"That makes two of us," John said, gathering the messy bags to toss them into a nearby bin.

"Yeah, but I didn't lose anything by bumping into you. You're out a meal. Please, let me buy you replacements. It'd be an honor."

John hesitated. He really just wanted to get back to the flat and eat. He'd been hungry when he'd gone out and now he was getting uncomfortably hungry. He could stand on the pavement arguing with Seb for another ten minutes or agree and head back to Angelo's to get a fresh order immediately.

"All right. Fine. Thanks," John said, nodding. Seb's smile stretched even wider and he followed after John like an excited puppy, asking questions about the cases that the newspapers had written up two years before.

John had to admit that having Seb in the restaurant while he waited for the new order of food to be cooked kept him from being bored. Seb kept up a steady stream of questions about what it was like to be around a genius detective and help him solve mysteries, and John found himself actually enjoying the conversation a little. Still, he was relieved when the food finally arrived. As nice as it was to relive some of the past cases, John wasn't really a fan of being hero-worshipped. It made him slightly uncomfortable.

"Thank you again for paying for this," John said as he gathered the two new bags of food.

"Thank you for chatting with me," Seb said, offering his hand to John again. "It's not often I get the chance to talk to someone famous. Dr. John Watson - amazing. Maybe someday I'll even get a chance to see Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson in action, huh? That really _would_ be amazing."

"Hah. Yeah. Well, see you around, Seb."

"Moran. Sebastian Moran," the other man said, giving a little wave. "And I hope I see you again _very_ soon, Dr. Watson."

John headed back out, walking quickly. He'd taken twice as long as he'd intended to and it was getting truly dark on the streets now. It was a relief when he arrived at 221B Baker Street. He tromped up the stairs to the flat he shared with Sherlock, stepping into the warmth and light of the sitting room gratefully.

"Brought you something," John said.

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up from the papers in his hands that he had been studying. He was standing on the couch, and he had already begun construction on one of his strange webs of information on the wall above it. He took in John and the bags of takeaway, and frowned. "Not hungry."

"There'll be a reward for you tonight if you eat," John said, shrugging out of his jacket. Sherlock's eyes sharpened as his arms sagged slightly, the papers in his hands forgotten for a moment. John could see the faint flush of red moving up Sherlock's neck towards his face, and he smiled faintly. That was an agreement. "I'll go and set the table."

Sherlock trailed after him, watching as John unpacked the bags. "Angelo's? Were they busy? You were gone for awhile."

"Ah, yeah. Literally ran into someone walking back and had to go get the order again. The nice bit was that the guy I ran into was actually a fan and wanted to pay for the new order to make up for it." John pushed a plate of food toward Sherlock before settling into his chair to his own full plate.

"A fan?" Sherlock asked, obviously surprised and puzzled.

"I felt the same," John said. "Said he'd followed all the cases the newspapers published. Seemed nice if a little awkwardly worshipful. His name was Seb Moran."

Sherlock froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. After a second, he lowered the fork back to his plate. He rose slightly from his chair, his hands braced on the table top. " _Sebastian_ Moran?"

"Yeah, that was the whole of it. Why, someone you know?"

Sherlock spun from the table and strode across the sitting room, slamming himself into a chair in front of his laptop. He typed furiously for a moment and then sat back with a heavy sigh, raising one hand to run it through his hair, disrupting the dark curls.

"I knew the name was familiar. Colonel Sebastian Moran, veteran of Afghanistan and a skilled sniper. Often referred to as 'the second most dangerous man in the world' back when he was in the employ of the most dangerous man in the world." Sherlock lifted his laptop to turn the screen towards John. Even sitting at the kitchen table, John could recognize the photograph on Sherlock's laptop screen.

"Moriarty?" John said, his voice a bare whisper as horror washed over him.

"Moran was Moriarty's right-hand man. Wherever Moriarty appeared, Moran was sure to be nearby. I have it on good authority that Moran was the sniper keeping his sights on you when I was forced to fake my own death three years ago." Sherlock shut his laptop, planting his elbows on the desk in front of him and leaning forward to bury both hands in his hair. "Moran being in town cannot be a coincidence. Especially since he deliberately sought you out."

"No, I bumped into him. I just wasn't watching where I was going," John said, pushing his plate away. His stomach was tightening and he couldn't possibly force food into it. Moriarty had been dead for over three years and yet he kept coming back to haunt their lives. First his sister and now his right-hand man... did the dead never truly stay dead?

"I'm sure he arranged the meeting. It was his idea to replace your dropped food, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"He wanted to spend time with you. I can't imagine what his purpose was, but the simple fact that he sought you out and deliberately arranged things to be able to spend time with you must mean that he has some rationale for being here beyond taking in the sights." Sherlock stood up with force, slamming his palms down on the desk. "This happening at the same time that Magnussen is circling us will complicate things. Since Moran approached you, I have to assume that you are his eventual target."

"Now, wait a moment," John said. "He asked lots of questions about you while we were talking, playing up the 'fan' thing. Maybe he was just using me to learn about you?"

Sherlock looked over at John, the surprise on his face almost insulting. "That's very clever, John. Yes... yes, that makes sense. It is completely believable that Moran would be on a revenge mission, much like Janine was a year ago. I imagine his plans aren't nearly as intricate as Janine's, though. Everything I've seen on Moran suggests that he loves his guns."

John pushed away from the kitchen table, clearing away the uneaten food and putting whatever was still in boxes into the refrigerator. "So, Moran wants to shoot us. Magnussen wants... what, to expose us?"

"To blackmail us into accomplishing some task for him; that's his usual M.O. He'll use your abortion to push both of us into a position where we either do what he demands or risk having the secret exposed to the world."

"So, one man wants to shoot us. Another man wants to expose us. Should I be keeping an eye out for a third problem? Is Mycroft planning anything we need to be aware of?"

"John," Sherlock said, his voice even.

John stepped into the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room and stood there, tense and unhappy. "Look, I'm having a legitimate freak out right now, Sherlock. I feel like I deserve one. It's not every day that I find out two accomplished killers are fighting for the honor of killing me."

"Magnussen isn't a killer," Sherlock corrected, striding across the sitting room to stand just in front of John. He reached forward with both hands, his fingertips finding John's unerringly. "He is a manipulator. He uses secrets to push people onto the paths that he wants them on. If we don't have what he wants, someone we know will and he will use us to get what he wants from them. It is what he is doing with Lady Smallwood, after all; utilizing letters that could ruin her husband to push her to do what he wants."

"Okay, so one wants me dead and the other is threatening to expose me to death. Forgive me if I only see 'dead' at the end of either."

Sherlock pulled John towards him, wrapping his arms firmly around John's back and pressing his nose and lips against the shorter man's hair. John stood stiff for a moment before he slowly, painfully began to relax. He was wrapped in his Mate's arms and the familiar scent of Sherlock acted on John like a stiff drink. After a moment, he leaned his forehead against Sherlock's chest, sighing and raising his own arms to slide beneath Sherlock's suit jacket, his hands splaying against the softness of Sherlock's shirt.

"You will not end up dead," Sherlock said, the words warm puffs of air against John's hair. "They're just cases. Hard cases, but just cases, John. Just the Work. We do this every day."

"Well, _you_ do this every day. Sometimes, I'm just a doctor."

"You are never _just_ anything," Sherlock scoffed, and John didn't fight the smile that touched his mouth.

"I'm absolutely knackered, Sherlock. And, honestly, after the day I've had, I'm feeling pretty vulnerable. I realize that there's no way you're going to sleep at this point," and Sherlock gave a soft huff of agreement; John didn't fight his answering smile as he continued, "but I would appreciate it if you would at least come into the bedroom and hold me until I'm deeply asleep. You smell rather comforting right now."

"Hormones, pheromones, and chemicals," Sherlock muttered, but he made the words sound like a love poem, a caress.

"Yeah, they can be nice sometimes." John tugged back from the embrace, reaching down to catch one of Sherlock's hands as he moved toward the bedroom. "Come on; I'm ready to pretend today never happened."

"We will solve all of these problems, John," Sherlock promised, following after the shorter man. "Eventually, you _will_ be able to forget that today happened."

"Good," John murmured, pushing open the bedroom door. "A bit of convenient amnesia could be nice."


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up when the first explosion shook the walls. He had been deeply and dreamlessly asleep when, suddenly, he was rolling from the bed, his arms coming up to cover his head automatically. Instincts from years in Afghanistan still had not faded away.

Seconds after he had come fully awake, crouching on the floor next to the bed with his heart hammering in his chest, he realized that he was alone in the bedroom. That meant Sherlock was out in the sitting room. John wondered where the explosion had come from. Had one of Sherlock's experiments on the second half of the kitchen table finally gone critical? 

John was rising to his feet, moving to check on Sherlock when a second, larger explosion lit the bedroom windows from the street outside and shoved the wardrobe towards him. 

And John knew no more. 

  
* * * * *  


The first thing John was aware of was pain. Horrible, intense, choking pain, the kind so deep that it kept you from drawing air to scream. He could hear shouting, as well. Someone was screaming his name over and over, the voice dark and desperate. 

"John! You have to help me! I can't lift it on my own! John, please!" 

He wanted to respond, but the pain was so horrifically intense that he spiraled down and away from it, heading for the waiting blackness. 

The second time John woke up, the pain and shouting were gone. Instead, there was a soft, repetitive beeping and the sound of a voice speaking over a PA. John blinked his eyes slowly, taking stock. Nothing hurt, which had to mean that the pain from before had either been in his imagination or he was on shockingly high doses of very good drugs. 

"Hhh," John said, trying to get a word out. He heard movement near him and turned his head very, very slowly towards it. He could smell Alpha hormones somewhere nearby; surprising, since he hadn't been anywhere near his next Heat, last he remembered. How long had he been out? 

"John? Are you awake this time? Can you hear me?" 

"Yyyuh," John managed, blinking his eyes rapidly to try and focus on the dark shape standing near him. 

"Finally. It's been days since the surgery." The dark shape was resolving into a man. He was sharply dressed, although his suit looked as if it had been recently dragged behind a bulldozer through wreckage. There was dust and tiny bits of gravel spattered liberally across it, along with a few rips in the fabric. His face also bore several long cuts, although they did little to hide how gorgeous he was. He had a cupid's bow mouth, high cheekbones, and slightly tilted blue-green eyes. Add in the dark curls, slightly wild and mussed, and John had to admit that this man had won the genetic lottery. "Can you speak yet?" 

"Yyyes," John managed, glad he had been able to form an actual word this time. 

"You'll be in the hospital for at least several more weeks. I found you underneath the damn wardrobe. Your thick head broke its fall, and there was an emergency surgery to help relieve the pressure on your brain, but the surgeon has reassured me that you should be fine." 

"Good," John said, managing to make the word sound almost normal. The man's voice was delightfully deep. John could almost feel it vibrating in the center of his head, although that could be the drugs he was on. "So I'm not... invalided out?" 

"What?" 

"You said... I'll be fine. Will I be going back? Or is this hospital... in Afghanistan?" 

The man stared, incomprehension on his face, and John wondered if he'd slurred the words too badly to be understood. Slowly, though, the look of confusion melted from the man's features, replaced by a slowly dawning fear. 

"John, you were injured in an explosion at our flat at 221B Baker Street in London. You haven't been in Afghanistan in over five and a half years." 

John stared back at the man, unable to believe what he'd just heard. "No... I was just... just in battle. I remember turning to look at Callahan and... that's it." 

The dark-haired man sank slowly into a chair pulled up right next to John's hospital bed, his eyes never leaving John's face. "That is your last memory? Do you know who I am?" 

John stared at the man hard, eyes sweeping the almost intimidatingly beautiful features before he finally admitted, "No, I'm sorry." 

  
* * * * *  


The man had remained next to John's hospital bed for several silent moments before the nurse came in to check on her patient. When she arrived, the man had rushed from the room, saying something about John's doctor. John was a little relieved; if what the man had told him was true, John had lost five years of memories. Talking to his doctor seemed like the logical next step. 

Unfortunately, the nurse injected something into his IV and John felt himself being pulled back down into darkness. 

When he finally regained consciousness, the man from before was sitting next to his bed again, fingers steepled beneath his chin and eyes closed. He looked as if he were dozing and John cleared his throat softly, turning away to look around the hospital room in an attempt to get clues to his location. 

"Awake?" Apparently, the man _hadn't_ been asleep. John turned back to look at him as the man pushed himself up in the chair next to John's bed. "Do you recognize me now?" 

"No, sorry. Should I?" 

John didn't miss the brief expression of pain that swept across the man's face, although it was gone within a moment of appearing. His features composed themselves into a mask of calm once again, and he nodded faintly. "Yes, you should. We've known each other for five years and been Mated for the last six months." 

"What?" John said, trying to push himself into a sitting position. From the way his entire body screamed in painful protest, it was obviously a mistake. 

"Here, use this," the other man said, passing over the controls for the hospital bed. Once John was able to breathe without gasping in pain, he studied the controls and managed to raise the head of the bed until he was able to look over rather than up at the man sitting beside him. 

"Look, I can't possibly be Mated," John said. 

"Touch your bond Mark," the man advised, and John raised one hand to run it over the back of his neck. He couldn't stop his huff of surprise as he felt the raised scar of a bonding bite. 

"Jesus," he whispered, rubbing his fingertips over it repeatedly, taking in the reality of it. There was also something about the Alpha's scent... John was, of course, used to the scent of Alphas. It would be unlikely for him to have never run into an Alpha in the course of his adventures around the globe. However, he'd always associated the scent of Alphas with the scent of fertility and sex; this man had another, deeper layer of scent beyond that. He smelled liked comfort and home. John gave the dark-haired man an assessing look and felt his eyebrows going up as he took him in once again. Tall, fit, gorgeous... and Mated to John Watson? "Jesus," he murmured again, this time appreciatively. 

"It is undoubtedly a lot to take in. I've spoken with your surgeon. He said it is possible your memories will return in time, but that they'll need to do some new tests to determine the extent of the damage since the ones done before your surgery weren't detailed enough for that kind of assessment." 

"So... retrograde amnesia, huh?" John said, letting his hands fall into his lap. 

"That is the phrase your doctor used." 

"I've never done much research into it beyond the basics. I was more concerned with lacerations, gunshot wounds, and minimizing bleeding after a limb was blown off." John looked over at the man next to him, shaking his head. "Five years?" 

"Closer to five and a half," the man confirmed. 

"And we're... Mated?" 

"For six months." The man paused, quirking his lips as if thinking of something, before he raised one hand and wobbled it side to side. "Roughly." 

"And... what's your name?" John felt slightly embarrassed to have to ask. 

There it was again, that brief flash of pain across the other man's face, barely there long enough for John to register it before it was hidden behind his mask of calm. "Sherlock Holmes." 

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," John said softly, trying it out. "So, we've known each other for five years?" 

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in response. 

"How did we meet? You don't look like any army bloke." 

"We were looking for flatmates and Mike Stamford introduced us." 

"Mike Stamford?" John said, surprised. "Good God, I haven't seen him in years, ever since we were students together at Bart's." 

"Actually, you went out for drinks with him a week ago," Sherlock said, looking down at his folded hands in his lap. 

"...oh." 

"We got on well as flatmates and you started helping me with my... job. I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job." 

"What does that mean?" John asked, curious to learn whatever he could about his life. 

"It means when the police are out of the depth, which is always, they consult me," Sherlock explained, and John raised his eyebrows. 

"I thought the police didn't consult amateurs." 

This time the look of pain on Sherlock's face didn't vanish within a second. It stayed as Sherlock stared at John, his mouth slightly opened as if he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. 

There was a quick rap at the door to the hospital room and whatever Sherlock had been about to say was lost. John looked over to see a short, pudgy man in a lab coat bustle through the door. He had a harried look on his face and his dark skin was flushed. 

"I'm Dr. Gupta. It was me who performed your surgery and I'm here to check on how you are recovering. I heard you are experiencing some memory loss?" 

"Ah, yeah," John said, glancing once again over at Sherlock before turning his full attention to Dr. Gupta. "The last clear memory I have is from Afghanistan and I understand it's been five years since I was there." 

"Hm," Dr. Gupta said shortly, leaning in to examine John. John submitted to the instructions of 'look here' and 'chin up' and 'tell me if this hurts' without complaint, familiar with the process from the other side of the doctor-patient experience. Once it was finally over, Dr. Gupta folded his hands over his ample belly and stared hard at John. 

"Well, we will need to order a few tests to see if we can determine how much damage there is. Your Mate has told us you are a general practitioner?" 

John cleared his throat, glancing back at Sherlock again. Is that what he had done with himself after being a combat medic? It made a certain kind of sense. "Yeah, I suppose so." 

"You had a brain edema and were experiencing raised intercranial pressure which was compromising cerebral blood flow. Barbiturate therapy caused drastically lowered cerebral perfusion pressure. A decompressive craniectomy was determined to be your best chance and was undertaken two days ago. It seems that you are recovering well, apart from the retrograde amnesia. It is likely that it was caused not by the surgery but by the original injury that caused the brain edema." Dr. Gupta shifted his weight, giving John a quick smile. "I feel that your prognosis is good, Dr. Watson. I'll be scheduling an MRI for you later today and will let you know the results tomorrow. Good morning." 

Dr. Gupta bustled from the room and John leaned heavily onto his pillow, blowing out a breath of air. 

"Your surgeon is having an affair," Sherlock murmured softly. It was so random that John's face tightened into a frown. 

"What?" 

"In fact, that was where he was heading when he passed by your room and remembered that he needed to check in on his patient. I had talked with him earlier and so he knew you were awake and responsive. He ducked in and out so quickly because he was heading to a meeting with his mistress." 

"What makes you think that? It's kind of a random accusation," John said, staring at Sherlock in confusion. 

"His wedding band had been recently removed and then shoved back on. He hadn't quite gotten it into the depression where it normally rests, so he'd been in a hurry when putting it back on. He probably removes it when having sex with his mistress because the infidelity bothers him, but not enough for him to stop the affair. He had traces of both baby powder and dog hair on the leg of his trousers; he is a surgeon in a high stakes profession with both a small yappy dog and a new baby at home. He's undoubtedly feeling the pressure but doesn't want to turn to his wife for comfort because she's experiencing postpartum depression." 

"How do you know that?" John asked, surprise in his voice. 

"There was a magazine article he'd torn out of a magazine and stuffed into the pocket of his lab coat. The title was just visible." 

"That... was amazing," John said, glancing over at the door through which Dr. Gupta had left only moments before. 

"You see, you were right." 

" _I_ was right? Right about what?" 

"The police don't consult amateurs." 

John felt a smile tugging at his lips and he gave into it. There was something about Sherlock... John couldn't quite put his finger on why, but he liked this man. It was reassuring to know that, however much he may have changed over the last five years, his tastes were as good as ever. 


	4. Chapter 4

Hospital stays are generally very boring. You're either waiting to get better, or waiting to die. John Watson, however, was finding that _his_ hospital stay was anything but.

He spent the first two days after waking up greeting a string of visitors. Mike Stamford came by, chubbier than when John had known him back in university, but still just as cheerful. A pair of police officers came by - a silver-haired man that introduced himself as Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and a curly-haired woman called Sergeant Sally Donovan - who told him that they were not only friends of his, but also the officers who were heading the investigation into the explosion in the building across the street from his home. An older woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson said she was their landlady, but she stayed and fussed over him more than his own mum would have done. 

Sherlock played guard dog with every visitor, catching them at the door to John's room and talking to them quietly for a moment before allowing them to enter. Each person had the same expression when it happened: surprise. At first, John thought it was because Sherlock was telling them about the amnesia, but he realized that it would have been covered in whatever phone calls were made to tell them in which hospital room he was convalescing. From the way his visitors kept glancing back at the tall man who stayed hovering by the room's door throughout the duration of each person's visit, John finally came to the conclusion that they were surprised at something Sherlock had said or done. 

When a man John apparently worked with at a clinic, his final visitor on the second day, called goodbye from the door to the room, John fixed his eyes on Sherlock. 

"So, I wanted to ask you something." 

Sherlock strode over to the bedside, settling back into the armchair that he had been in, almost unceasingly, for the last five days. "What is that?" 

"Everyone looks surprised when you talk to them at the doorway. What are you saying?" 

"I believe it is less what I am saying and more that I am _here_ ," Sherlock said, and John tensed. 

People were surprised that his Mated Alpha was sitting in the hospital with him after he'd gone through major surgery? What kind of relationship did they _have?_ Was it a Mating of pure convenience? Was there _any_ affection between them? 

John hunched his shoulders protectively, leaning slightly away from Sherlock as his mind raced through the possibilities. Sherlock noticed, of course, and reached across the bed to catch hold of John's near hand. 

"I can see you are coming to all the _wrong_ conclusions," Sherlock said, twining his fingers with John's. John held still, unable to deny how good the touch of Sherlock's hand on his felt. It was one of the first times Sherlock had touched him in the last four days and Sherlock had done it so naturally and unthinkingly that John had to assume that Sherlock had been making an effort to hold himself back up until that point. Had he been trying to avoid touching John to give John his space? He would have to talk to Sherlock about that; the warmth of Sherlock's skin on his was pure pleasure. John didn't mind the touch at all. 

"All right. So... why are they all so surprised?" 

"They are surprised to see me sitting so quietly in a hospital day after day. I am rarely inactive. My mind is like a racing engine which will tear itself to pieces unless it is connected up to the work for which it was built. What they do not know is that when you are asleep - which is a frequent thing, due to the amount of medications they are pumping into you currently - I am able to concentrate on the Work here in the hospital room. I am afraid the pacing and talking aloud has made me unpopular with your nurses, but they're stupid; they don't realize that I'm working on some incredibly important problems." 

"Working? On a case, you mean? Were we um... were we detecting when the explosion happened?" 

"We have a couple of different cases that we're splitting our time on, but leave them to me. Right now, I am concerned with you recovering both your physical health and your memories." Sherlock gave John's hand a quick squeeze and then moved to pull back. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand, refusing to let go. 

"Don't. I mean... this is the first time you've touched me. I was starting to wonder if maybe we weren't that close." 

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "We're Mated." 

"What, like Alphas never take an Omega just to have one? Or just because they want a breeder?" 

"That is _not_ -" Sherlock began, but John cut him off. 

"No, I didn't think so. But you haven't really touched me since I woke up. I was starting to wonder... I realize I'm not exactly the perfect physical Omega specimen. Meanwhile there's you..." John trailed off, letting himself feast on Sherlock's physical perfection, once again feeling a thrill as he realized that the man before him was _his_ Mate. 

"I don't understand," Sherlock said, brow still furrowed as he looked at John. "You think you are... undeserving of me?" 

"Well... I mean, yeah. Obviously." John gave a quick, humorless laugh, looking down at their joined hands on the bedsheets. 

"John. You don't... I am... difficult. I... I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. I have science experiments that have taken over half the kitchen table - used to be the entire table but you negotiated for half for us to eat on. If I don't have a case to occupy me, I torment the people around me to entertain myself. I get lost in the Work sometimes and forget to eat or sleep. I am ignorant of nearly every social nicety and offend almost every person I meet." 

"Oh," John said, looking up at Sherlock, surprised at how forthright the man was being of his short-comings. Most people sugarcoated themselves in an attempt to make others like them, but Sherlock was laying everything down plainly. Is this how their relationship worked? Brutal honesty? 

"The point I'm _trying_ to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I never expected to be Mated to anyone, and certainly not to the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. John, I am a ridiculous man... redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your love." 

John looked down again, blinking hard against the sudden sting of tears in his eyes. He cleared his throat, trying to think of what to say. What was there to say to a declaration like that? John looked back up at Sherlock, aware that the other man could see the shine of tears in his eyes. "Come here, you," he said, his voice tight as he fought to get a hold of his emotions, and John tipped his head up, asking for a kiss. 

Sherlock complied, rising slightly from the chair beside the hospital bed to lean close. There was the softest brush of lips against John's, the faintest pressure. The kiss was almost chaste, and John reached over with the hand not tangled in Sherlock's; John wasn't interested in chaste, not for the first kiss he could remember with his Mate. 

John cupped his hand on the back of Sherlock's head, pulling the taller man closer and opening his mouth slightly in invitation. When Sherlock responded, John swept his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, reveling in the taste. Their tongues touched and retreated, the kiss deepening and shallowing in turns. John could feel his pulse speeding as he and Sherlock edged closer together, Sherlock's arm coming around behind his back and tightening on him almost desperately. John twisted, trying to get nearer, and the various injuries throughout his body chose that moment to report in. John broke the kiss with a groan of pain, cringing. 

"What? Oh... of course," Sherlock said, leaning away. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright and, even through his pain, John was pleased to see he had such an effect on the other man. "I should have remembered. I suppose I have been going through a form of withdrawal the last few days, not being able to touch you. Of course, I would overdo it when I was finally given the opportunity again." 

"That's fairly complimentary," John said, leaning back against the bed and sighing as his pain slowly abated. 

"And completely true," Sherlock said. "I'll call your nurse. It is close enough to your next dose of pain medication that she should be willing to give it to you now." 

"It'll knock me out again," John reminded him. 

"And I'll be able to concentrate on the Work for awhile. I told you, John, I want you to be fully recovered. There are problems to be addressed, and none of them can be dealt with from the hospital room. You need to be healed and your memories returned before we can have any hope of dealing with Magnussen or Moran." 

"What are they?" John asked. 

"Problems," Sherlock said, buzzing for the nurse. "But not your problems. Not right now." 

John closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the softness of the pillow. He would not argue the point, especially since it was obvious from how Sherlock had said the unfamiliar words that they had been something John _had_ known, once. He sighed softly; he _needed_ his memories back. Perhaps, once he were out of hospital, things would start trickling in? God, he hoped so. 

* * * * *  


It was strange to recognize London without recognizing the specific path that was being taken. John knew the streets; he'd seen them throughout his life. But it wasn't the familiarity of someone on the way home, and it should have been; John had lived at Baker Street for the past five years, right? It should have been more familiar. 

When the cab stopped, John was surprised. When he'd pictured the flat he shared with Sherlock, he had assumed that it would reflect the salary of a GP working part-time at a clinic and a consulting detective who helped the police out occasionally. 

"Well, this is a prime spot," John said as he slid from the cab carefully, his body still stiff and aching slightly as it healed. "Must be expensive." 

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady - she visited you in hospital - she's giving us a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out," Sherlock explained as he paid the cab driver and then headed up the front steps. 

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked. 

"Oh, no. I ensured it," Sherlock said and stepped into the flat. John followed after a slight, startled pause. John shut the front door behind him and turned to take in the entryway. 

For a just the briefest moment, something fluttered at the back of his brain. A dim memory of leaning against the wall, gasping with laughter, Sherlock next to him. 

_"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."_

_"And you invaded Afghanistan."_

John reached toward the memory, wanting more. He could almost hear his own giddy laughter followed by Sherlock's deeper chuckles. 

"Is that you, boys?" Mrs. Hudson was coming out of her flat and she bustled over to him quickly, hands fluttering as she looked him up and down. The memory drifted away and John couldn't pull it back to see what had happened next. "Oh, don't you look so much better! It's so good to see you up on your own feet again, John. You don't look as pale anymore, either." 

"Thank you. Yes, I feel much better." John clasped his hands together at his waist, uncomfortable. How was he supposed to act? How well did he know his landlady? She'd visited him in hospital and chatted for an hour about this and that, but maybe she just enjoyed talking? How close were they? 

_'This is ridiculous,'_ John thought, angry at himself for his inability to pull his own memories up. 

"Well, if you need anything, please, let me know. Tea, shopping, some cleaning... just until you're feeling back to yourself, though; I'm not your housekeeper." 

"Tea would be good," Sherlock said, already heading up the staircase next to John. "Biscuits, too, if you have them." 

Mrs. Hudson glanced over at John, looking expectant. 

"Uh. Yes. That would be fine, thank you," John said quickly. 

"I'll be just a moment," Mrs. Hudson said, reaching out to give his arm a little pat before turning and bustling back into her own flat. John stood for a second, undecided, before he heard Sherlock's voice from the landing at the top of the stairs. 

"Are you coming up, John?" 

"Yeah," John called, going around the staircase to take hold of the banister. He was still sore in some spots, bits of his body healing slower than others. He mounted the stairs carefully, keeping his hand on the banister at all times. 

Stepping into the flat, John had the strangest sense of deja vu sweep over him. He reached out, bracing his hand against the doorframe. He knew this room, knew it intimately... didn't he? 

"John?" Sherlock stood across the room, hesitating in the doorway to what looked to be the kitchen. "Have you remembered something?" 

"I uh... yeah. Downstairs. Something... we were laughing. And I said something about 'the most ridiculous thing I've ever done' and you said - 

"'And you invaded Afghanistan,'" Sherlock replied, a very faint smile touching his face. "We'd just gotten back from running across a good part of London chasing after a cab. I had thought that a serial murderer was in it." 

"Was he?" John asked, curious. 

"Yes, although we didn't realize it at the time. We thought we'd chased the wrong cab." 

"This room is familiar, too," John said, glancing around. The deja vu had faded and he stepped away from the doorway, walking into the room proper. He looked around, taking it all in, before walking over to carefully settle himself in a red cloth-upholstered armchair, relaxing into the comfort of it. "It's odd, like something I'm remembering from a dream... but it _is_ familiar." 

"Good." 

"But, uh... is it always this... cluttered?" John hesitated over the last word, trying to think of a nice way of saying 'covered in rubbish.' 

"Not usually this bad," Sherlock admitted, stepping over next to John's chair to survey the room. "After the explosion, Mrs. Hudson had new windows put in and had someone fix the cracks in the walls, but I didn't devote much time to straightening up. I preferred to be in hospital, keeping watch over you. I couldn't guarantee that Moran wouldn't -" 

John glanced up at Sherlock when the other man broke off suddenly. "That word again. Moran. Is it a person?" 

"A very dangerous person. The second most dangerous man in the world, actually. He's a sniper, part of a criminal organization that I had believed dismantled. He has apparently come to London to keep an eye on us, although I cannot surmise his intentions beyond that." 

"Oh," John said, wishing once again that he had his memories back. How was he supposed to keep himself safe if he had no idea who was after him? "Do we often have killers chasing after us?" 

"Some days are worse than others," Sherlock hedged, reaching down to stroke the backs of his fingers against John's shoulder soothingly. John relaxed at the touch, unable to help the instant reaction. Even without the bond bite on his neck, John would have known who his Alpha was just from how he reacted to Sherlock's touch. 

"Wasn't there another name you said? Mag... Magnet..." 

"Magnussen. A blackmailer. He has information on you that he's using to manipulate us. I don't know what his eventual goal is, not yet -" 

"Wait, stop. Information on _me?_ " John, who had been sinking into the luxurious embrace of the armchair, suddenly sat up at Sherlock's words. 

"He knows of the abortion you had when you were sixteen." 

"Jesus!" John said, hands clenching in his lap. "But those records were _sealed!_ How did he... if that information gets out, I could be _killed._ " 

"We've discussed this," Sherlock said, resting his palm on John's shoulder and giving a light squeeze. "We were trying to formulate a plan for breaking into his home to retrieve the files from the vault beneath. That was somewhat derailed by the explosion and your injury." 

"Have the police found anything on the explosion?" 

"They suspect that it was set deliberately. There are traces of explosives. I would suspect it was something Moran did. He seems to be studying us right now, and studying how we react to the explosion could give him information on how we would react to whatever he has planned in the future. I would guess that you ending up concussed with amnesia was an unexpected twist." 

"So, what are we supposed to do next?" John asked, turning his face up towards Sherlock, his eyebrows drawn down in consternation. 

"Nothing, Dr. Watson." John and Sherlock both turned to face the unfamiliar voice coming from beyond the kitchen. John reached automatically for a service weapon that was no longer there, cursing silently when his hand closed on nothing. The man who stepped from the kitchen was tall and blond with a narrow face. His expression was impossible to interpret as he glanced between Sherlock and John. 

"Nice to see you again," the man said, nodding at John. 

"I don't know you," John said. Was this man a friend? But a glance up at Sherlock's tense expression told John that this man was definitely _not_ a friend. 

"I had heard whispers that you had amnesia," the man said, a smile lighting up his face. "Interesting. Happened during the explosion, right?" 

"I'm sorry, but who are you exactly?" John asked. 

"Mr. Holmes recognizes me, don't you?" the man asked, turning his head to stare at Sherlock. 

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said, his voice cool. John stood from the armchair abruptly to join Sherlock, staring at the man Sherlock had just described as 'the second most dangerous man in the world.' 

"My God," John whispered, stunned. Sherlock reached out to touch John's arm lightly, the briefest brush of his fingertips. 

"How did you get in?" Sherlock asked, his tone almost conversational. 

"Your bedroom window wasn't latched. I suppose they forgot to do that after installing the new panes of glass," Moran said, still smiling faintly. "I thought it was time for us to have a little chat about what I wanted from you." 

"I agree," Sherlock said. 

"I am interested in only one thing, Mr. Holmes: the destruction of your partner the same as you destroyed mine." 

"Your partner?" John asked. 

"James Moriarty. Mr. Holmes drove him to suicide. It's only fair that I return the favor," Moran said, making a graceful gesture with one hand towards John. 

"Naturally," Sherlock murmured. 

"I've erased his memories already. I'll admit, that was pure luck, but it's delightful, all the same. Shattering his faith in you, Mr. Holmes, shouldn't be much harder. And, once I've managed all of that, I will kill him. It only seems right that I leave you as you have left me: a broken, empty man who lives only for revenge." Moran smiled a razorblade smile, his eyes shining. "Not that you'll get your revenge. As soon as I've taken the kill shot on Dr. Watson, I'll kill myself. You'll be left alone, Mr. Holmes, with only your little cases to occupy your time." Moran stepped back towards the kitchen doorway. "See you around." 

Sherlock moved forward quickly but Moran was already retreating, shoving the table as he went past it. The table tipped, spilling beakers and flasks of chemicals across the kitchen floor. Sherlock skidded in the mess, slamming into the counter with force. By the time he had regained his balance enough to follow Moran down the hall, the other man had disappeared into the bedroom. A moment later, John heard Sherlock's frustrated swearing, and he sank slowly back into the armchair. Moran was gone. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unabashed smut ahead. No redeeming social value.

John rose from his chair an hour later to make tea. Sherlock had gone through the entire flat, double checking that every window was latched and would remain so. Each time Sherlock paced past John, it was obvious that Sherlock's agitation was increasing.

_'And why not?'_ John thought as he clicked the kettle on, turning to watch Sherlock pace the sitting room for the umpteenth time, his steps short and sharp. _'An Alpha with an injured Omega who has had his home invaded twice in the past month -'_

Memories crashed on him so quickly that it startled a gasp out of him: Mrs. Hudson at the sitting room door, nervous about a guest downstairs; Magnussen strolling through the flat as if he owned it; John's own secrets being tossed into the silence of the sitting room like trash onto a pristine floor; and Sherlock comforting him by holding him as he fell asleep that night. 

"What is it?" Sherlock was in front of him suddenly, obviously alerted by John's gasp. 

"I just... remembered Magnussen's visit. All of it. You held me as I fell asleep..." 

Sherlock's tight expression softened by degrees, his mercurial eyes sweeping John's features. After a moment, he raised his hand to run his knuckles gently down John's cheek before dropping his hand again. "I regret not stayig in the bedroom with you that night. You were on your way out to the sitting room when the wardrobe fell on you. If I'd been there, you might not have been walking in front of the wardrobe when the second explosion went off." 

"Don't," John said, wishing Sherlock would touch him again. "Don't blame yourself. You couldn't control what Moran would do. You still can't." 

"If I could only figure out what he's trying to _accomplish_ , I could predict what he was going to do next." 

John hesitated for a moment, and then reached up to cup Sherlock's jaw, his palm conforming gently to the angles. Sherlock's eyes focused on John's face, his mouth dropping open into a faint 'oh' of surprise. "Do you ever stop trying to be clever?" John asked, the pad of his thumb stroking the corner of Sherlock's mouth. 

"Never," Sherlock admitted. 

"I'm sure I could quiet your mind," John said, stepping close enough that he could feel the heat of Sherlock's body along the front of his. Before Sherlock could reply, John pressed up on his toes, his mouth meeting Sherlock's in a soft kiss. 

Sherlock responded without hesitation, his arms coming up to wrap firmly around John's chest. He was pressed against Sherlock from chest to thigh and John couldn't stop himself from slowly pressing his pelvis in towards Sherlock's. They weren't in the hospital now and John's pain was at a manageable level. There was nothing to disturb them. 

Sherlock responded by deepening the kiss, his teeth nipping at John's lower lip until John opened his mouth, his tongue seeking Sherlock's. He had moved his hand from Sherlock's jaw to cup the back of the other man's head, his fingers twining through Sherlock's curls. His other hand came up to grip at Sherlock's hips, pulling them together more firmly. 

Sherlock obviously did not mind. His erection was becoming undeniable, pressing into John's own as they devoured each other's mouths. Sherlock's hands slid down John's back until they could slip underneath John's jumper, sliding up the smoothness of John's vest. 

John wanted to take the jumper off, suddenly feeling desperate to move forward with what they were doing, but he didn't want to take his hands off of Sherlock. He was gripping Sherlock's hair at almost the point of pain, his fingers digging into Sherlock's hip just slightly. Sherlock responded by breaking the kiss and ducking his head to lick and bite softly at the side of John's neck. John arched his neck willingly, reveling in the touch of Sherlock's lips, tongue, and teeth on his pulse point, at the edge of his jaw, on his earlobe. 

"Jesus," he whispered, sliding his hand from Sherlock's hip to his arse, gripping and pulling Sherlock into him as he slowly writhed his pelvis into Sherlock's. It made Sherlock's mouth pause on his ear, Sherlock's breath heavy and gusting. 

John took the pause as a good sign and began thrusting his hips against Sherlock's, bringing both hands down to grip Sherlock's arse and hold him in place. Sherlock responded by gripping John's jumper and pulling it up. John had to raise his arms to be free of the jumper but he had his hands back on Sherlock as soon as the jumper was off of him. He began working at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, his hands clumsy in his enthusiasm. Sherlock didn't complain, though, his hands resting on John's waist with possessive patience until John was able to help him out of the button-up. John's vest followed and they pressed their bare chests together, resuming their earlier kisses. 

John broke the kiss to glance quickly around the sitting room and then slid his thumbs through the belt loops on Sherlock's trousers, pulling him towards the sofa. 

"Bedroom's the other way," Sherlock said, his voice low and rough. 

"Sofa's right here," John replied, and the smile that spread over Sherlock's face was absolutely shining. 

John maneuvered Sherlock onto the couch and crawled on top of him, grinding his hard prick against Sherlock's as he braced one hand on the sofa cushions and stroked the other up Sherlock's chest and across one broad shoulder. He lowered his face to taste the skin of Sherlock's neck, and then chest, and then nipples. It was all new to John and yet somehow so familiar. The strangled sounds of pleasure Sherlock made were both novel and immediately recognizable as the sounds of his Mate. He nipped his way down Sherlock's stomach, taking a moment to dip his tongue into Sherlock's navel and enjoying the way the other man moaned at the act. He reached the top of Sherlock's trousers and slid his fingertips into the waistband, drawing his fingers back and forth slowly to watch Sherlock writhe, his hips lifting up from the sofa as he tried to get John's hand to his straining prick. 

"Be patient," John said, moving to undo the button on Sherlock's trousers. 

"No," Sherlock replied, thrusting his hips up again. 

John laughed, oddly charmed by Sherlock's impatience, and pulled the zip down, carefully maneuvering it over the straining cock beneath. He slid Sherlock's trousers down and Sherlock kicked them away. John lowered his face to nuzzle at the other man's cock through his black pants, listening delightedly to the frustrated sounds Sherlock made. 

"John, this is becoming intolerable," Sherlock said, his voice harsh with need, and John couldn't stop his quick laugh. 

"But you aren't thinking of anything else now, right?" John asked, palming Sherlock's straining cock through the fabric of his pants. Sherlock groaned, bringing an arm up and throwing it over his face as he breathed unsteadily, hips undulating at John's touch. 

John slid Sherlock's pants down slowly, enjoying the reveal of pale skin as the black fabric slid over jutting hipbones. When the straining cock was finally exposed, John felt a harsh rush of desire sweep over him and his mouth fell open in a silent exhalation. He pushed Sherlock's pants the rest of the way down and then paused, just staring. 

Sherlock seemed to realize it was taking John an inordinate amount of time to do _something_ , and he uncovered his face, looking over at John. "What?" 

"Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?" John asked, just staring at the slim, pale form framed by the dark grey leather sofa. 

Sherlock's face went soft for a moment, his eyebrows drawing up in the center as he stared at John, taking in the open admiration of the other man's face. 

"I frequently think the same of you," Sherlock admitted, reaching out to run his hand down John's bare chest, seemingly unaware of the lingering green bruises across his torso or the still-healing cut across his ribs. 

The wonder on Sherlock's face as he stared at John's bare torso was all it took for John to lean forward, wrapping his lips around Sherlock's prick, sliding his tongue down and around as he sucked gently. He had a small amount of experience with giving head; an Omega surrounded by Alphas for years at a time on military deployments got good at all kinds of things when skirmishes were few and far between. It wasn't like John's Heats had stopped simply because John was out of the country, and there were lots of things that could be done beyond penetrative sex when your partner was willing. 

Sherlock was definitely willing. He made a strangled noise as John took his cock into his mouth and grabbed double handfuls of the couch, his hips rising involuntarily. 

John bobbed his head slowly, swirling his tongue around the head of Sherlock's cock each time he came up, sucking deeply each time he went down. He kept the rhythm up until Sherlock began thrusting into his mouth, Sherlock's breath coming in sharp, painful gasps. John knew that cadence of breath from multiple lovers and he relaxed, letting Sherlock fuck into his mouth as the other man rapidly approached his orgasm. 

"John. John, I'm -" 

"Mmm," John responded, not taking his mouth from Sherlock. And then Sherlock was coming. Hot salty bitterness filled John's mouth and he struggled to swallow. He felt a moment's relief that he _wasn't_ in Heat at the moment; trying to swallow a load from an Alpha with a full knot and the ability to just keep coming and coming was impossible. A non-rut orgasm, though, was manageable. 

When Sherlock collapsed back against the couch, John sat up slightly, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He undid his own trousers and slid them down along with his pants, crawling up onto Sherlock to press full-length against the other man's body. 

"Good?" he asked, nuzzling his nose against the side of Sherlock's neck, flicking his tongue out to sample the dew of sweat on Sherlock's skin. 

"Very," Sherlock replied, his voice lazy and satisfied. "Your turn?" 

"Please." 

They shifted until they were sitting on the couch, John leaning back into the cushions while Sherlock sat facing him, one leg folded underneath him and the other hanging over the edge of the couch. Sherlock wrapped his hand gently around John's prick, leaning forward to draw a slow, languorous lick up the outer edge of John's ear as he began precisely pumping his hand up and down. With Sherlock's orgasm so fresh in his mind, John didn't think he would last long. 

Sherlock stroked him expertly, responding to each clench of John's thigh muscles and each sharp inhale of pleasured breath. He built John's orgasm like he built his deductions, piling each piece of evidence on the last to show him which direction to go. And while he was gripping and stroking John's cock with his hand, he was nibbling, sucking, and licking his way up and down John's neck and shoulder. 

John could feel his orgasm building, his stomach muscles going taut. "Sherlock," he whispered, and the other man clamped his mouth onto John's bond mark, sucking at the scar with such wanton desire that John threw his head back, mouth falling open as he shuddered, coming hard enough to almost make him ache. 

Sherlock let go of John's prick, curling against his side. Warm arms wrapped around John's chest and he turned slightly, pressing his face into the side of Sherlock's neck, breathing in the lingering pheromones on the other man's skin. They stayed that way for a long while, basking in the afterglow of their orgasms and breathing in the scent of Mate. 

John did not know Sherlock yet, not really... but he was beginning to suspect that it was going to be shockingly easy to fall in love with him. 


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes, John's memories drifted in slowly, in little pieces that coalesced into a whole. Sometimes, they hit fully formed like a rushing train, almost knocking John over with their intensity. Frequently, though, he only got tiny bits that didn't give him much beyond a sense of deja vu. Sherlock would be playing the violin and John would feel like he'd heard that composition before, or John would be sorting through laundry and he'd recognize a jumper that he hadn't worn before.

The rarity of big, fully-formed memories coming to him made it a real surprise when John was suddenly overwhelmed after walking into the bedroom and seeing the open wardrobe. 

It had been two days since the incredibly enjoyable sex with Sherlock on the sitting room sofa. John didn't know if Sherlock was making up for lost time, but the morning after that sexual encounter, Sherlock had woken him up with a blowjob. John fully admitted that coming to consciousness with Sherlock's mouth wrapped around his cock and an orgasm three breaths away was not unpleasant, but he'd been surprised that the previously reticent Sherlock apparently took so much enjoyment in watching John orgasm. Sherlock had initiated sex twice more with John in the two days that followed their first encounter on the sofa, and John hadn't complained. 

It was because of Sherlock's most recent handjob in the armchairs that John was even heading to the bedroom. He had come all over his trousers and, since it was late in the evening anyway, he was going to change into his sweatpants and get ready for bed. 

But the open wardrobe door caught his eyes as he stepped into the room, and the memory hit him hard, actually making him miss a step and stumble a bit. The image of his own hand holding a small bit of plastic cling film with white powder in it was combined with a feeling of furious betrayal. There was a brief stab of conversation: 

_"Sherlock, were you actually planning to get high?"_

_"I was going to speak to you first."_

John felt pulled towards the wardrobe, the memory dragging him forward. He reached up to the top shelf slowly, a part of him not wanting to check. The sinking feeling in his gut when his fingers brushed against a tiny sachet on the top shelf, pushed well back so it would be hard to just happen upon, was almost overwhelming. 

John plucked it down, staring at it. It looked very similar to the one in his memory. Drugs. Sherlock was hiding drugs in their bedroom. John leaned back against the wall next to the wardrobe, staring hard at the small twist of cling film and the soft white powder inside it. 

There had to be more to that memory. That couldn't be all that there was. He shut his eyes, pressing one hand to his forehead as he clenched the tiny packet of drugs in his other fist, willing the memories to come, but there was nothing there. 

"John?" Sherlock's warm hand came to rest on John's waist. "Have you remembered something else, or is your head hurting?" 

John pressed his lips, hesitating, his fist closing tighter on the small bit of drugs. He glanced up at his Mate, licked his lips, and looked over at the wardrobe. "Uh... my head." 

"Paracetamol? Or do you need one of the prescription medications?" 

"Just paracetamol," John said, staring down at the floor of the bedroom. Sherlock swept away, his dressing gown fluttering behind him from his speed. John felt a sharp prickle of guilt; Sherlock obviously cared. But how in the hell was John supposed to talk about Sherlock doing _drugs?_ Was his Mate an addict? Did John regularly find drugs in the flat or was that memory a one off? 

John tossed the tiny bit of cling film back into the wardrobe and stepped quickly away from it, feeling soiled. Sherlock was back within moments, two small tablets in one hand and a glass of water in the other. John took the medication and mumbled a 'thank you' before heading over to the bed to strip out of his dirtied clothes. Sherlock stayed in the doorway of the room, watching John with a penetrating gaze. John tried not to make eye contact as he tossed his clothes into the hamper and pulled on his t-shirt and sweatpants. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in his lap. 

"Is there anything besides the headache?" Sherlock asked. 

"I uh... do you..." John looked up at Sherlock, meeting his eyes for a second before glancing back down. John cleared his throat before continuing. "Do you do drugs?" 

"Ah," Sherlock said, his posture changing subtly. "Not anymore." 

"Oh. Well, good. That's... good, isn't it?" 

"It is," Sherlock said, the words hesitant. There was a question in his voice, but John couldn't address it. Not at that moment. The enormity of how much he had lost with the loss of his memories was hitting him again and it left no room for him to think of anything else. 

"I'm going to bed, if that's all right?" 

"Of course," Sherlock said. He hesitated in the doorway, staring at John where he sat on the edge of the bed. He opened his mouth, his brow furrowed, and then shut it without saying anything. Finally, he said, "Goodnight" and John didn't miss the question in Sherlock's voice. He could imagine what Sherlock wanted to ask: _'Are you all right? Are_ we _all right? Is there anything we need to talk about?'_

"Goodnight," John said, flipping off the lamp on the bedside table and scooting into his spot on the bed, turning his back to Sherlock. After a moment, the overhead light clicked out and the bedroom door shut as Sherlock left. There was silence for several minutes and John stared at the wall in the darkness, his mind replaying the small bit of memory over and over, seeking the rest of it. He jumped slightly when he heard the plaintive notes from the violin begin from the sitting room. So, Sherlock was feeling stressed, too. 

John sat up on the bed, resting his forehead in his hands and leaning his elbows onto his legs. He knew that sleep would not come to him as long as his mind was churning. Should he hide the drugs? No, Sherlock would know at once that John had been the one to hide them. Confronting him might be a good choice, but not tonight; he was exhausted, even if his mind wouldn't stop spinning. 

Tomorrow morning, then. First thing tomorrow morning, John would speak to Sherlock about the drugs. If it was necessary to get help for his Mate, John would find whatever help Sherlock needed. He was committed. The loss of his memories had not changed their bond and it was obvious to John how deeply Sherlock felt for him. John would find a way to fix this. 

* * * * *  


Considering how late John was awake, running through the different possible twists the conversation with Sherlock could take, it was no surprise that he ended up sleeping in the next morning. When he finally woke, the sun was fully up and he could hear a strange voice from beyond the bedroom door. Startled, he slid quickly out of bed and dragged clean clothes out of the dresser, getting them on in record time. He could shower later. 

He stepped out of the bedroom to find Sherlock, still in the same suit and dressing gown as the day before, talking to a taller man with a receding hairline dressed in an impeccable tailored pinstripe suit. 

"Ah, Dr. Watson. Recovering well?" the man asked as John stepped into the kitchen from the hallway. 

"Yes," John said, his eyes flicking to Sherlock with an unspoken question. 

"My brother, Mycroft," Sherlock said, standing with feigned nonchalance in the doorway to the sitting room. John knew Sherlock was faking his calm; there was a tightness in the muscles around his eyes that gave him away. Was the relationship between the Holmes brothers strained in some way? John's mind flashed back to the sachet of cling film in the wardrobe; did Mycroft know about his brother's drug habit and that was what strained their relationship? 

"Nice to meet you," John said, stepping around the kitchen table to offer his hand to Mycroft. 

"We've known each other for five years, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, but there was sympathy on his face and he took John's offered hand to give it a quick shake. 

"Well, then, good to see you again," John amended before stepping over to Sherlock's side. He was concerned about his Mate's possible drug problem, but he was going to put up a united front as long as a stranger was in their flat. 

"I came by to see if there were any new developments on the explosion across the way. Sherlock has forbidden me from looking into it." 

"Because it is _my_ problem and _I_ will solve it," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. John glanced between the two men, trying to follow the conversation. 

"Sorry, look into it? Are you with the police?" 

"One could say that he _controls_ the police," Sherlock muttered and John's eyebrows climbed in surprise. 

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft said, sounding disgusted. "As I've said before, I occupy a minor position in the British government." 

"No, you _are_ the British government," Sherlock corrected. "And we don't need your help." Sherlock paused for a moment, his expression changing from piqued to thoughtful. "Not with the explosion, anyway. You may be able to assist me with something else." 

"Always happy to offer whatever services I can render unto you," Mycroft said, inclining his head slightly towards Sherlock. 

"Magnussen," Sherlock said and with the single word, Mycroft's entire demeanor changed. The indulgent expression vanished from his face and he straightened up, his body becoming tense and his face guarded. 

"Magnussen is not your business," Mycroft said, the warning in his voice undeniable. 

"He has made himself my business," Sherlock replied, his tone darkening at his brother's obstruction. "He approached us with documents about John that could be very dangerous, were they leaked to the public." 

Mycroft glanced at John briefly, his mouth puckering slightly. "I had hoped that your abortion would never become a problem. I should have known that Magnussen would dig it up eventually." 

"Wait, you _knew?_ " John said, fury washing through him. What good were sealed records if everyone he met seemed to know his secret? 

"I looked into your past when you first made an acquaintance of my brother," Mycroft said, unashamed. "I needed to know what skeletons were in your closet that could be one day dragged out for public view and tarnish Sherlock's reputation - not that he hasn't done enough on his _own_ to thoroughly darken his good name." 

"Unimportant right now, Mycroft," Sherlock said in a warning tone. 

"It took some doing to find out what was in your sealed records. I had hoped that your sin would be one easily dismissed... but, sadly, there is no statute of limitations on the Omega Unborn Protection Act. Even when the Omega seeking an abortion is legally a minor, it is considered an unforgiveable act." 

"Yeah," John said, his voice harsh. "I know all that." 

"But Sherlock didn't," Mycroft said. "He needs to be aware of what he is up against." Mycroft's eyes slid to his brother, staring hard at the younger man. "Do you understand, Sherlock? If this information comes out, John would be treated as harshly as if the abortion had happened only yesterday. He will be dragged bodily from this flat by the police and taken into custody. He will be kept in a jail cell with no hope of release until he is taken to be killed... which would probably only take days, at the most. They would only need to read through his sealed records to verify that he had taken the life of a potential Alpha/Omega fetus." Mycroft shifted his weight slightly, glancing down at the kitchen floor. "I researched all the cases on record where the Omega Unborn Protection Act was enacted. Even if they only _suspect_ the termination of a pregnancy, the Omega is put to death as a warning to other Omegas." 

John looked away, shutting his eyes. He hadn't known that. Knowing that Omegas were being slaughtered simply on the suspicion of having had an abortion made his own situation that much more hopeless. 

"Then the information can never become publicly available," Sherlock said as if it were the obvious answer. 

"That will mean you bow to whatever demands Magnussen makes," Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows as he looked over at his brother. 

"You think I care if I give in to blackmail? John will be safe; that is what matters." John's mouth dropped open slightly as he turned to look at his Mate, surprised. Sherlock, however, kept his eyes on his brother as he continued to speak. "That could mean I have to put pressure on you, Mycroft, to guarantee that Magnussen gets what he wants." 

Mycroft pressed his lips, staring hard at his younger brother for a moment. He turned slightly to look at John, his face assessing. Finally, he nodded slowly. "I understand." 

"Wait," John said, holding up one hand. "I don't understand. If you're with the British government, why can't you do... something? Stop Magnussen or order him to stand down or something?" 

Mycroft gave a short, humorless laugh. "How well do you think it would go over if a part of the British government ordered the owner of several of the largest newspapers in Britain to stop printing the news?" 

"But he's blackmailing people! Surely that can't be legal." 

"Of _course_ it isn't legal," Mycroft said, his face twisting in displeasure. "But he never causes too much damage to anyone important. He's far too intelligent for that. He's a businessman, that's all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil - not a dragon for the two of you to slay." 

"A dragon slayer?" Sherlock said, his tone amused. "Is that what you think of me?" 

"No. It's what you think of yourself," Mycroft replied and Sherlock nodded faintly. 

"So the potential loss of my life isn't considered to be 'too much damage,' is that it? Or is it that I fall under the 'not anyone important' category?" John could feel his temper rising, filling him with the desire to hit someone. Before Mycroft could respond, John turned away, heading for the sitting room door. "You know what, nevermind. I'm going out." 

"John -" Sherlock began, but John was grabbing his jacket from the coat rack and flinging the sitting room door open. 

"Let him go," John heard Mycroft advising as he clattered down the stairs. "Let him work through his anger. We still need to discuss -" 

John flung himself out the front door and onto the cold street. It was almost November now, the chill in the air unquestionable, especially so early in the morning. John hesitated on the pavement in front of the flat, glancing up and down the unfamiliar street. He and Sherlock had stayed in the flat for the most part over the last week, choosing to relax while John recovered. On the few occasions that they _had_ gone out, Sherlock had always hired a cab, feeling that John would do better without excessive walking to aggravate his still-healing injuries. 

_'I'll just pay attention to street signs,'_ John decided, setting off down Baker Street at a quick march. It felt good to be moving after being so long inactive in the flat. John's stride ate up the pavement and he puffed the chilly air in, enjoying the cold in his lungs. 

He'd only gone a couple of blocks when he began slowing down, though. He was only three weeks out from major surgery and his body wasn't back up to top form yet. He settled into a slow stroll, anger still buzzing in him at Mycroft's words but unable to keep up the quick pace that would have burned the anger out of him. 

Plus, Mycroft's visit that morning had interrupted John in his plan to confront Sherlock about the drugs in the wardrobe. Frustration added fuel to John's anger and he shoved his hands viciously into the pockets of his jacket, hands clenched into fists. 

"Trouble in the love nest?" a voice just behind him said, and John spun, his fists coming up defensively. He knew that voice. 

Sebastian Moran smiled faintly at John's threatening pose, slightly lifting the edge of his heavy jumper to show John the handgun tucked into his trousers. John lowered his fists slowly before jamming them back into the jacket's pockets. 

"There we go," Moran said, nodding. "Let's go for a little walk, John. I'd like to chat with you." 

"I don't have anything to say to _you,_ " John said, his voice tight. 

"Then I'll do all the talking," Moran said, stepping up next to John and lifting his foot to give John a little nudge in the back of one knee. "Come on, soldier, march." 

John's nostrils flared as he took several short, infuriated breaths, and then he was walking quickly. Moran fell into step next to him. 

"I saw Mr. Holmes the elder go into the flat. Is Sherlock shooting up again, needing his big brother to step in and get him out of a mess?" 

"How did you -" John began and then snapped his mouth shut. A delighted smile touched Moran's face. 

" _Is_ he? I was only guessing. It fits his pattern of past behavior, turning to drugs when things get rough. I'd say having a damaged Omega under threat would count as 'rough,' wouldn't you?" 

John didn't bother responding, his steps short and angry as he continued down the street. 

"Does it frighten you, knowing your bonded Alpha is a drug addict?" 

"I will see to it he gets help," John said tightly. 

"He's _had_ help. Plenty of it, from what I've heard. If he's back on heroin again, I don't think you're going to have much luck convincing him to turn himself around, _Omega_." 

"Our relationship isn't like that," John protested. 

"And how would you know?" Moran asked, his tone mocking. 

John stared silently at Moran, a faint, humorless smile twisting his mouth. "I know because I know Sherlock. And, I know myself; I would never have allowed myself to Mate with a controlling, old-fashioned, gender-prejudiced Alpha." 

Moran lifted his hands in an I-mean-no-harm gesture. "As you like." Moran stepped back, moving away from John with his hands still up. "Believe the best of your Alpha... the same man that does heroin but doesn't bother talking to his Mate about it. Seems like you have a very stable, healthy relationship there. I'll be keeping an eye on it; this could be fun." 

Moran turned and jogged off down the block, leaving John standing in impotent, frustrated anger on the pavement. 


	7. Chapter 7

John was almost back to the flat when his mobile chimed from his jacket pocket. He reached in and drew it out, turning it to read the message on his screen.

_Everything okay? -SH_

John hesitated on the pavement, glancing around him thoughtfully. What should he say? Everything was definitely not okay. But if he didn't respond, wouldn't Sherlock worry? 

Of course, John was on his way back home. He would be back at the flat within five minutes. Surely he didn't need to respond to Sherlock's text when he would literally be walking up the stairs to their flat in five minutes. 

The mobile chimed again, vibrating against John's palm as a second text came in. 

_Am surprisingly worried about you. -SH_

John snorted a soft laugh, shaking his head in amusement, before he thumbed in a reply. 

_Heading back now. Lots to talk about. -JW_

He shoved the mobile back into his jacket's pocket and picked up his pace a bit. His stomach was beginning to grumble from all the exercise undertaken before breakfast, plus a chilly breeze was picking up. It was a relief to reach 221B five minutes later. The familiar sound of Sherlock's violin greeted John as he shut the front door behind him and headed up the stairs to their flat. The sitting room door was standing open and John shrugged out of his jacket as he stepped through it. 

"Is Mycroft gone?" John asked, hanging his jacket up. 

"Awhile ago," Sherlock said, stopping mid-note and tossing both violin and bow onto his armchair. His eyes flicked over John, taking in everything. "You were walking the entire time you were out?" 

"Walking and talking," John said, and as Sherlock's eyebrows went up in surprise, John added, "I saw Moran again." 

The anger that swept over Sherlock's face was impossible to miss. He stepped closer to John, his eyes sweeping over his Mate a second time as if looking for damage he had not seen on his first glance-over. "What happened? Did he touch you?" 

"He just spoke to me. He uh... he knew about your drug habit." John glanced up at Sherlock and then turned to look across the sitting room at nothing in particular, avoiding eye-contact. 

"My drug habit? What does that have to do with anything?" 

"I found your stash, Sherlock," John said, tugging at the bottom of his jumper uncomfortably. "In the wardrobe." 

"That was weeks ago," Sherlock said. "And it was for a case. I thought you said you'd remembered all this?" 

"No, not weeks ago. Last night. I found your drugs last night," John said. "After I remembered finding the drugs that you'd planned to take for a case, I checked the wardrobe and found more." 

Sherlock spun away, moving quickly through the sitting room and kitchen. John trailed after him at a much slower pace, listening as Sherlock slammed open the wardrobe in the bedroom. 

John was still walking slowly through the kitchen when Sherlock stormed out of the bedroom and down the hall, shaking the tiny plastic-wrapped bundle of drugs in one hand. "These are _not_ mine. I don't know how they got into the wardrobe, although I have my suspicions. I do know, however, that it wasn't _me_ that put them there." 

"So... then what? Maybe a junkie broke in and hid those in our wardrobe for safekeeping?" John asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. 

"No, but it would be completely believable that Moran put them there when he broke in last night to sew discord." 

John shut his mouth, startled. That actually made perfect sense. "He _was_ going on about your drug habit as if it were something he really wanted me to pay attention to," John admitted, rubbing his palm over the scruff on his jaw; he hadn't taken the time to shave that morning and his calloused hand made a rough sound as it ran across the stubble. 

"He said last night that he wanted to destroy you and that he'd already succeeded in erasing your memories. He said his next goal was to shatter your faith in me. Planting drugs would do that." 

"Jesus," John said, dropping his hands to his side and lowering his head. He had played right into Moran's plot. "That was... I'm... an idiot." 

Sherlock tossed the sachet of drugs into the sink negligently, moving over to John and slowly enfolding the shorter man in his embrace, his movements cautious as if he weren't sure of his reception. John raised his own arms immediately, sliding them underneath Sherlock's robe to wrap solidly around the other man's back. He rested his stubble-rough cheek against Sherlock's shirt front, shutting his eyes as he let himself be surrounded by the warmth of Sherlock's body and the scent of his Mate. Sherlock lowered his own cheek to the top of John's head, taking in a deep lungful of air. 

"I can't blame you for thinking the worst of me," Sherlock admitted. "I do, however, wish that you had _talked_ to me about your suspicions." 

"I'd planned to," John muttered, keeping his eyes shut as he leaned into the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. "I was going to talk to you this morning, but Mycroft was here when I woke up and things sort of went downhill." 

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, his tone darkening slightly. "Although Mycroft _did_ raise a good point: we will need to give in to whatever demands Magnussen makes of us... _if_ he still has your documents." 

"Wait, what?" John lifted his face from Sherlock's chest, looking up into the other man's face. "Of course, he'll still have to documents. You said that he keeps everything in a vault under his house. It's kind of hard to take things that are right under someone's nose." 

"I happen to know he will not be home tomorrow night. He is flying to Berlin for the weekend to meet with the Federation of German Industries. I believe that I will be able to break in with the help of his personal chef." 

"His _personal chef?_ " John asked, startled. 

"How do you think I obtained the plans to his house, John? Those things aren't readily available on the internet. I spent months feigning an interest in fine cuisine, attending various lectures and classes that I knew Ms. Agatha Andrews, personal chef of one Charles Augustus Magnussen, would also be attending. We've struck up quite a friendship - at least, _she_ thinks so. I think she could probably strike up a friendship with a courgette, if she was so inclined. Regardless, I've promised to come by for a tour of her kitchen this weekend." 

"Stop. Stop." John stepped back from Sherlock, shaking his head. "You've had this all planned, then? You knew we'd be sneaking into Magnussen's home this weekend?" 

"We? No, John; _I_ am sneaking in. You can't possibly come along. You're still recovering from Moran's attack." 

"I'm bloody well coming or you're not going," John said firmly, crossing his arms and staring hard at Sherlock. The taller man opened his mouth to argue and John cut him off. "I'm not kidding, Sherlock. I'll be helping you or you won't be stepping foot out of this flat for the next week. I may be recovering but I'm still a trained soldier who knows what to look for in dangerous situations." 

Sherlock's mouth shut with a snap, his eyes hard as he glared at John for a silent moment. Finally, though, he shrugged his wide shoulders and tilted his head back slightly as if the whole conversation was uninteresting. 

"Fine. _We_ will be going to Magnussen's home Saturday evening to tour the kitchen." Sherlock's eyes brightened as he considered the changing plan, and a faint smile twitched at his lips. "This will actually work even better because you will be able to distract Ms. Andrews while I figure out how to get in Magnussen's vaults." 

"Glad I'll be useful," John muttered. 

"It should take me only a few minutes to figure out how to get to the information we need. Let's assume that I'm extremely slow that evening and give it a solid ten minutes. You can keep a woman's attention for ten minutes, can't you, John?" 

"Probably," John said dryly. 

"Excellent. Once I've retrieved both your and Lady Smallwood's sensitive documents, I'll fetch you from Ms. Andrews kitchen, and we can be on our way." 

"That's one problem solved," John said, "but what about Moran?" 

"Ah," Sherlock said, his bright expression fading away. He paced across the kitchen, eyes downcast as he thought. John took advantage of the momentary distraction to switch the kettle on and toss two slices of bread into the toaster; his stomach was grumbling louder with every passing minute. 

John was halfway through his first slice of toast when Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to face John, clasping his hands behind his back. "Moran wants us to be at odds with one another, correct?" 

"Seems as though," John said, his voice muffled by the bite of toast still in his mouth. 

"Then we need to give every indication that we are at odds. I'll construct a dummy to sit up in your room throughout the evening while I stay down in the sitting room. We'll keep the curtains drawn so that he cannot see into the flat as easily; it will make the silhouette of the dummy that much more convincing." 

"And where will I be?" 

"With me, of course. You won't be able to sit in your armchair, I'm afraid; Moran would certainly notice two Johns. But the sofa isn't in a direct line of sight to either of the windows, so you should be able to relax comfortably without alerting him of the ruse." 

"And how long are we supposed to keep this up?" 

"Just for tonight, I should think," Sherlock said, moving around the kitchen table to poke thoughtfully at a congealing mess in a Petri dish. "We'll be at Magnussen's on Saturday, and once I have your documents safely pilfered, we can turn our attention solely to Moran." 

"So I'll be able to sit in my own chair again by Monday evening, you think?" John asked, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. 

"Of course, John. Everything is well in hand," Sherlock assured him. 

"Good. That means we can have breakfast and I can have a wash," John said, turning to the fridge in search of something more edible than the dish of eyeballs and the tissue samples spread across the roast pan on the second shelf. He did not miss Sherlock's soft, fond huff of laughter from behind him. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another smutty chapter. Still no redeeming social value.

By late afternoon, Sherlock had finished the construction of his John dummy for John's old bedroom upstairs. When he looked at it, John couldn't believe that the pile of dirty clothes and lumpy towels would convince anyone, but Sherlock assured him that the silhouette through the closed curtains would be convincing, especially if the only light came from the bedside lamp. John decided it wasn't worth debating, especially since he wasn't a genius and wasn't familiar with throwing off snipers with the use of dummies.

As the afternoon wore on into evening, John offered to order takeaway. "I mean, unless you want me to cook the eyeballs in the fridge." 

"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't. They're almost ready for dissection and heating would ruin the entire experiment," Sherlock said, his brow furrowed as he looked up from his laptop screen. 

John gave a quick snort of laughter and went in search of their stash of paper menus from local restaurants. 

An hour later, they were sitting on opposite sides of the sitting room and consuming Chinese out of their waxed paper containers. Sherlock had grudgingly agreed to eat, but, from the way he was tucking into his beef and broccoli, John felt sure that the other man had been hungrier than he'd realized. 

John felt strange sitting across the room on the sofa. He couldn't touch Sherlock, something he'd grown used to doing over the last week. When they sat in their armchairs, Sherlock frequently nudged his feet close to John's chair in subtle invitation, and John had come to enjoy the faint brush of their feet while he read. 

He found himself missing his Mate sitting in the same room as him, and it was putting him off of his dinner. 

John cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly to set his food on the coffee table. "How sure are you that Moran is keeping watch on the flat?" 

"Fairly sure. He would want to know we were having difficulties before he moved on to the third part of his revenge scheme," Sherlock said, lowering his own nearly empty container to rest on one thigh. "I doubt he keeps constant surveillance on the flat, though; he'd need a team to do that and there hasn't been any indication that he has a team working with him. He typically took solo jobs for Moriarty, things that required a single well-placed shot to complete." 

"Do you think if we keep the lights off in the hallway and bedroom, we might possibly retire to the bed together?" 

"Tired?" Sherlock asked, his eyes ticking up to the small bandage tucked behind John's ear, a not-so-subtle reminder of his recent surgery and ongoing recovery. 

"No, that's not it," John said, rubbing his palms against the knees of his trousers. "I just... miss touching you." 

For a moment, Sherlock's eyes widened with surprise. His expression quickly melted into one of tenderness, though, as he stared at his Mate across the sitting room. "A feeling I can completely understand," Sherlock said, standing to flick off the lights in the sitting room. Within a few moments, the entire flat was plunged into darkness except for a faint light filtering down the stairs from John's old bedroom. 

John rose from the couch slowly as his eyes adjusted to the dark room. Sherlock was already heading towards him, a black shape moving through the darkness. John stepped around the coffee table to meet him and raised his head just as Sherlock lowered his. Their lips met in an almost desperate kiss, both of them pressing into the other as their desire for each other instantly ignited. John had expected the kiss to be tender, but he had no complaints about it being instantly passionate. 

Neither wanted to break the kiss, and they stumbled unsteadily across the sitting room and through the kitchen, bumping into furniture as they tried to maneuver without taking their hands and lips off of each other. 

John was working at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt as they moved down the hall and was able to pull it roughly from the other man's arms as they crossed the threshold into their bedroom. They broke their kiss briefly as Sherlock pulled both John's jumper and vest off in one smooth movement, depositing them on the floor. As soon as his arms were free, John was sliding his hands over Sherlock's chest and down his sides to grip his waist. Sherlock responded by grappling at John's trousers, getting frustrated when he wasn't able to get both the button and zip undone as quickly as he'd like. 

John was laughing softly at Sherlock's frustration until Sherlock managed to pull the zip down and immediately plunged his hand into John's pants, wrapping his long fingers around John's prick. John's laughter cut off at once, replaced by a soft groan as Sherlock began to work him. 

John pinched one of Sherlock's nipples, causing Sherlock's hand to still momentarily and giving John the chance to quickly undo the button on Sherlock's trousers. John tugged the zip down and shoved both Sherlock's trousers and pants down. It was almost a relief to be able to wrap his own hand around Sherlock's prick and began stroking slowly but firmly. 

Sherlock breathed out unsteadily, his eyes going unfocused as John worked him, his own hand going still on John as sensation momentarily overwhelmed him. When he was able to regain some presence of mind, Sherlock leaned forward to recapture John's mouth with his own and they both became very distracted by the kisses for a few minutes. 

They ended up kicking the rest of their clothes across the bedroom before tumbling onto the bed together. John was on top of Sherlock, bracing his hands on either side of Sherlock's ribcage as he sucked a red spot onto the side of Sherlock's neck and rutted his throbbing cock against Sherlock's. Sherlock's hands were gripping tight to John's hips, his long fingers splayed across John's arse as he rutted his own hips up into John's. 

"I want to suck you," Sherlock said, his voice heavy and breathless as John finally let go of his neck, licking at the bruise-like mark he'd left on Sherlock's pale skin. "I want you to come in my mouth." 

John shivered faintly, his mouth dropping open in a soft moan as Sherlock's words sent a wave of wanting through him. 

He rolled off of Sherlock and onto the bed, smiling faintly. "No protests here." 

Sherlock was already rolling towards him, his face lightly flushed with desire as he looked slowly down John's body, his expression that of a man presented with a feast after a long time without food. The look alone made John's cock throb upward and Sherlock unconsciously licked his lips at the sight. 

Sherlock leaned across John's body, his warm breath tickling the hair on John's lower abdomen. He took John into his mouth slowly, sinking down by degrees as John groaned heavily, thoroughly enjoying the wet heat of Sherlock's mouth sliding down his cock. He threw an arm over his eyes, fighting the urge to thrust up into Sherlock's mouth. He wanted to enjoy this as long as he possibly could. 

He gasped when the head of his cock hit the back of Sherlock's throat, clenching both his hands into fists. Sherlock began to pull back slowly, increasing the speed of his sucking as he did so. 

"Jesus," John gasped, uncovering his eyes to look down at Sherlock. The sight of Sherlock's mouth wrapped around his cock sent a bolt of pleasure through John and he shut his eyes again, gasping out another "Jesus." 

He felt Sherlock's hand wrap around the base of his cock just beneath his mouth. Sherlock matched the pumping of his hand to the sucking slide of his mouth, and John was thrusting his hips upward helplessly within just a few minutes, his palms braced on the bed as he worked himself in and out of Sherlock's mouth. 

He felt his orgasm building and reached down with one hand, fingers threading through Sherlock's dark curls as he gripped the back of the other man's head. "Ah, yes!" he said, his voice tight. Sherlock swirled his tongue around John's cock, his hand pumping, and then John was coming, whispering Sherlock's name in a litany as pleasure flooded him. 

He felt absolutely boneless afterwards, dim aftershocks of bliss pinging through him as Sherlock slowly drew his mouth up and off of John's cock. Sherlock sat up, leaning across the bed to rummage through the bedside table's drawer for a moment and then he was back. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice was soft and almost hesitant. 

"Yeah?" John murmured, opening his eyes slightly to look over at the other man. 

"I want... I want to fuck you," Sherlock said, and John's eyes went wide. They had done a lot of things since John had come home from the hospital, but they hadn't done that yet. 

"Oh," John said. "Uh... when was my last Heat?" 

"Three weeks ago," Sherlock said. "We've had sex between Heats before." 

"I'm sure," John said, smiling faintly. "I was just wondering if we needed to take any precautions. Sometimes penetrative sex close to a Heat can bring it on a few days early." 

"I know," Sherlock said. "We're in the clear." 

"Then yeah, definitely; I want you to fuck me." 

Sherlock gripped John's hips gently as he settled himself between John's knees, a bottle of lube in one hand, stroking one hand gently along John's inner thigh. 

"Mmm," John hummed, a faint smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Since he wasn't currently in Heat, he wouldn't self-lubricate, making the bottle of synthetic lube an absolute necessity. He braced his feet on the bed, spreading his legs wide as Sherlock popped the cap off the lube and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. 

John shivered slightly as Sherlock rubbed the lube into his opening, closing his eyes to revel in the sensation. He was feeling sexually sated for the moment, but he knew it wouldn't last long, especially when he felt one long, graceful finger sliding into him. Sherlock began to gently fuck John with the single lubed finger, and John made soft noises of appreciation at the sensation. After several delicious moments, the finger slid out and John heard Sherlock squeezing out more lube. Sherlock slid in two fingers next, the lube making everything incredibly slick and enjoyable. John could feel his prick slowly beginning to get hard again in response to Sherlock's ministrations. 

He moaned in soft protest as Sherlock pulled his fingers out again, but he was adding a third within a few seconds, wiggling and scissoring the fingers as he gently eased John open. John was breathing hard as Sherlock worked him, his long fingers pressing smoothly but persistently to ease tight muscles and prepare John for what was coming next. 

Sherlock leaned forward, drawing his tongue slowly up the length of John's prick as he pumped his fingers in and out of his opening and John breathed out sharply, his hips rising from the bed in response. 

"God, I hope that's enough prep work," Sherlock said, his voice low and trembling as he pulled his fingers out. "I cannot wait another second." 

John was glad there was no chance of pregnancy outside of Heat, thus making the application of a condom unnecessary, because he didn't think he could wait another second, either. Sherlock's hands gripped John's hips firmly, lifting them up slightly, and John brought his knees to his chest to give Sherlock easier access. 

The feeling of the head of his Mate's cock prodding at him made John groan softly. Gently, Sherlock pushed against the tight ring of muscles at John's opening, keeping steady pressure until finally, delightfully, the head of his cock slid inside. He paused, letting John adjust to the sudden invasion. His hands were gripping almost painfully hard on John's hips, his breathing hard and unsteady as he tried to hold himself back from plunging in. After a few seconds, he began to ease himself in with tiny flicks of his hips, inching deeper and deeper into John's body. 

John was practically writhing with the sensation by the time Sherlock finally bottomed out, his groin pressed firmly against John's arse. They both stayed still for several long moments, panting as they fought not to move, both letting their bodies adjust to the new sensation of Sherlock plunged deep into John. And then Sherlock was drawing slowly back and pressing in, picking up a rhythm as he fucked into his Mate. 

The hands on John's hips shifted, no longer holding him still but gripping and pulling to increase the firmness of each thrust into John. With Sherlock firmly seated inside of him, John was able to lower his feet to the bed, knees up on either side of Sherlock's body. 

John could feel a second orgasm building up from the sensation of his Mate's cock stroking within him. He was thrusting back against Sherlock, meeting each plunge with enthusiasm. They were both panting now, both working hard as they approached their orgasms. 

John came first, his cock twitching as sensations shuddered through his body. Having orgasmed so recently, John produced only a small amount of cum, but the orgasm was just as satisfying as the first. As the muscles in his passage tightened down on Sherlock's cock, he heard his Mate give a guttural grunt of pleasure and then Sherlock's hands tightened painfully on John's hips as he came, heat filling John in fluttering bursts. 

Sherlock fell forward between John's spread knees, folding onto John's body. His panting breaths tickled the skin on John's stomach and John grinned faintly, reaching down to comb his fingers through Sherlock's curls, caressing the other man as they both relaxed. 

After a few quiet minutes spent catching his breath, Sherlock gently pulled his prick free of John, causing John to twitch at the sudden loss. Sherlock crawled on shaking arms and knees up the bed to flop onto his pillow, sliding his arms around John's body and pulling him close. John kicked the blankets up over them, and then tucked his face willingly against Sherlock's neck, breathing in the scent of sweat, Sherlock's shampoo, and Mate as he drifted into a contented doze. 


	9. Chapter 9

John woke up the next morning spooned against Sherlock's back, one arm thrown around the other man's chest. John blinked slowly, enjoying the soft susurration of Sherlock's sleeping breaths. After a minute, Sherlock twitched faintly and drew in a slightly deeper breath. John began to press soft kisses to the various scars that ran along Sherlock's shoulder blade, leftover memories of the months he spent being tortured over a year ago. The scars had all finally faded, even the more recent ones that Janine Hawkins had ordered inflicted on him. Silvery lines crisscrossed Sherlock's entire back and John shifted to allow himself to work kisses down Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock made a soft, happy noise low in his throat. John smiled at the sound, pressing a quick flutter of kisses to the mangled flesh just above Sherlock's buttocks. These scars were deep and twisted; it looked like someone had flayed him. John had chosen not to ask how each wound had been inflicted, choosing instead to shower them with love in the hopes that he could take some of the emotional sting out of them. 

John's eyes widened as he remembered, in quick bursts, many nights and mornings spent pressing kisses to and drawing caresses over all the scars on Sherlock's back, whispering "Shh, I don't need to know unless you need to tell me" when Sherlock would start to describe the torture; memories of holding the taller man when he woke from nightmares, screaming, disoriented, and absolutely terrified; fragments of conversation, reassuring his Mate that he didn't care about the scars except that they made Sherlock's back more interesting to kiss. 

Sherlock, always hyper-tuned to John, turned over slightly to cast a sleepy glance at John's face. "Have you remembered something?" he asked, his voice heavy and rough from sleep. 

"Lots of things," John said, leaning forward to rest his lips against one scar that wrapped around Sherlock's hip. He spoke with his lips brushing lightly against the puckered skin there. "Lots of nights and days doing just this: kissing your scars." 

"Mmm," Sherlock said, reaching one hand around to gently stroke it across John's hair, smoothing it down where sleep had ruffled it. "You've done more to help the scars heal than I ever could have managed. My doctor." He said the last fondly, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as a soft smile touched his mouth. 

John kissed Sherlock's hip gently before crawling back up to flop against his pillow, throwing one leg over Sherlock's hip. "What's the plan for today?" 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment as he thought. He captured John's foot where it dangled next to his stomach, massaging the instep gently. "We'll be traveling to Appledore late this afternoon. I've rented a car, but it will still take at least an hour to drive there. I'd like to spend the early afternoon reviewing the house plans. I want them fresh in my mind this evening, and there may be something I've missed that further review will bring to light. This morning, however, is open." 

"Then I'd like to stay in bed, just like this," John said, rubbing his nose against the nape of Sherlock's neck, right where his curls ended and his pale skin began. "At least until we get really hungry, and then maybe we can have tea and toast. But, after that, I'd like to come back to bed for more of this." 

"That can be arranged," Sherlock said, sounding inordinately pleased at the request. 

The morning passed slowly. They talked about nothing in particular, nattering on when the silence felt oppressive and sitting with their thoughts when the silence felt comfortable. They kissed frequently and kept in constant physical contact. 

As lunchtime approached, though, John finally rose from bed to head towards the shower. He felt completely contented with his morning and was even looking forward to the evening. He had complete faith in Sherlock's finding the documents they needed in the Appledore vaults. By tomorrow, John felt sure that at least one of their problems would be eliminated. 

Sherlock joined him in the shower after only a few minutes and they wound up letting the water slowly run cold as they indulged in long kisses and very enjoyable mutual handjobs. 

Afterwards, dry and dressed, John settled in his armchair to browse that day's newspaper while Sherlock hunched over his laptop, rereading all the notes he had taken on Appledore and reviewing the house plans. 

Sherlock left in mid-afternoon to go pick up the car he'd rented. When John's phone buzzed with a text from Sherlock an hour later, he rose from his armchair, tossing his newspaper into it. He grabbed his handgun from the small end table next to the armchair, tucking it into the waistband of his trousers at his back, tugging his jumper over it. He grabbed his jacket off the coat rack and clattered downstairs to join Sherlock. 

The drive was relaxing once they were out of the city traffic. The afternoon was waning into evening, and John could feel excitement bubbling up in him as the hour's drive to Appledore ticked away. Even though the chances of anything very interesting happening were slim - especially with Magnussen out of the country - the simple fact that they would be in Magnussen's house, stealing back what he had stolen, was giving John a thrill. 

The house was visible from a mile away in the gathering dimness of the evening. Many of the walls were actually floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing the light of the house to bleed out over the countryside surrounding the mansion. It shone like a beacon, drawing them towards it like moths to a flame. 

As they pulled around the drive, John could see a woman framed against the brightness of the house, waving enthusiastically. 

"That will be Ms. Agatha Andrews," Sherlock said, nodding toward her. His tone turned dry as he added, "She has great enthusiasm for all things cooking. Compliment her effusively and you cannot go wrong." 

Once the car was parked, John hopped out and walked around to the front, waiting until Sherlock joined him. Together, they walked up the drive to join Agatha in the brightness of Appledore. She was a tall woman, almost the same height as Sherlock, although several stones heavier than Sherlock had ever been. Her brown hair was trimmed quite short, barely brushing her earlobes, and her round face was absolutely shining with happiness as she took in the two men approaching her. 

"Sherlock!" she enthused, grabbing him into a bone-crushing hug. When she let go, Sherlock shrugged slightly, like a cat setting itself back to rights after being caressed by an unwanted hand. "I'm so glad you've made it. And who's this?" She turned bright eyes to John, her expression curious and friendly. 

"My Mate, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said, his tone subtly proud. 

"Oh, yes, you've mentioned him before!" Agatha reached toward John and enfolded him in a hug just as enthusiastic as the one she'd given Sherlock. John couldn't help the huff of air that blew out of him at the strength of her squeeze. "It's so nice to meet the man that I've heard so much about!" 

"So much?" John echoed, tugging at his jacket lightly to resettle it after Agatha's hug. 

"When he wasn't discussing a innovative twist on an old recipe, he was talking about how you saved him from himself and set him on a better path," Agatha said, smirking. "Beautiful, romantic things to say and I didn't mind hearing them. But come inside! You want to see my kitchen. Mr. Magnussen gave me carte blanche when I was setting it up. He told me to spare no expense and I haven't." 

The two men trailed after the cheerfully chattering woman. She walked through the house confidently, nodding as they passed a pair of smartly dressed men. John noticed earpieces on them and realized that they had to be household security. His eyes slid to Sherlock, wondering if this would change the plans at all, but Sherlock was staring at the security men, seemingly unimpressed. 

The kitchen was one floor down from the main floor of the house, located at the end of a long and somewhat intimidating hallway. Agatha ushered them into her demesne ahead of her, looking excited. John had to admit that the room was intimidating, both because of it's enormous size and because it was absolutely packed full of gleaming steel and polished marble. Everything was perfectly organized. The machinery and appliances were dauntingly confusing, though; John barely recognized anything, and found himself glad of the simpler kitchen at 221B. He would have hated trying to make tea and toast in this monstrous kitchen. 

_'Guess that's why Magnussen has a personal chef,'_ John thought, casting a glance at Agatha as she gestured enthusiastically at the contents of an industrial-sized refrigerator with one hand, the other hand holding firmly to the stainless steel handle of the heavy door. _'Learning how to work all the machinery in here would take time away from his busy schedule of blackmailing and stealing secrets.'_

Amazingly, Sherlock seemed familiar with the various appliances, pointing and rattling off questions about them. Agatha answered with the same keenness she had been evincing all evening. John stood back, letting Sherlock work, keeping his hands folded behind his back and pasting a pleasant expression on his face. 

After awhile, Sherlock grimaced faintly and interrupted Agatha's nonstop rattle of information about a stove. "I'm sorry, but where's the loo?" 

"Oh, right," Agatha said, unperturbed by the interruption. "The closest one is out the far door, down the hall. It's the fourth door on the left-hand side of the corridor. I suggest you not press any of the buttons on the toilet; I've read the instruction manual and I still sometimes end up spraying my bum with perfume instead of water half the time." 

"Thanks," Sherlock said. "John will keep you company, won't you, John?" 

"Right," John said, quickly pasting a smile on. "I'm afraid most of this stuff is beyond me, but I like eating and I'm always interested in hearing about new foods." 

Sherlock swept from the room and John stepped closer to Agatha, trying to look engrossed as she began listing some of the dishes she had made at Magnussen's request, checking after each dish description to see if John had ever tried it. He had to admit that he'd never heard of most of them, and Agatha dragged him over to the previously opened industrial-sized refrigerator and began pulling out covered dishes. 

"Obviously, I'd never give Mr. Magnussen leftovers," she explained as she lined glass and ceramic bowls and serving dishes on the marble countertops, "but he lets the staff eat any leftovers we want. I like to double some of the recipes just to leave enough extra for anyone who needs a quick meal while they're at Appledore. You can try a little of each, if you'd like." 

John spent the next fifteen minutes sampling bites of each thing Agatha put in front of him, making appreciative noises at each dish. For her part, Agatha seemed perfectly content to keep up a constant monologue on each dish and it's component parts and the relative difficulty of finding the different ingredients. 

It wasn't until the eighth dish had been cleared away that John realized Sherlock had been gone an unusually long time. 

"I actually need to use the loo, myself. And, I could check on Sherlock while I'm gone, if you don't mind?" John said, setting his fork in the gleaming stainless steel sink next to the other seven forks that Agatha had given him. 

"It'll give me a chance to clear some of this mess away," Agatha said jovially, gesturing at the open dishes of food and the dirty forks in the sink. "Remember, fourth door on the left-hand side of the hall." 

John waited until he was in the hallway outside the kitchen to slip his phone from his pocket, quickly thumbing in a text. 

_Where are you? -JW_

He moved slowly down the hallway, pretending to count the doors he passed as if he actually were looking for the loo. Sherlock's reply came a second later. 

_Upstairs in Magnussen's bedroom. Trying to find anything to lead me to his vault. -SH_

John swore softly under his breath and broke into a jog, heading for the staircase at the end of the hall to take him up a storey. Hopefully, Agatha wouldn't notice that it was taking them longer to return from the loo than it should. 

Coming up from the basement level of the house to the first storey, John found himself wondering how anyone lived in a house like this; did Magnussen carry a floor plan around for the first few weeks of his residence to avoid getting lost? An impressive house was wonderful until you couldn't find your own bedroom when you were ready to go to sleep for the night. 

John had thought it would be difficult to find Sherlock in the twist of rooms, but it turned out to be almost painfully simple: he needed only to follow the sound of tense, angry voices. Moving quickly and almost silently, John rushed through the airy, open rooms of Appledore, listening anxiously as the angry voices resolved into recognizable words. 

"...and as I said, I'm a guest of Agatha Andrews'. I got turned around coming back from the loo." 

"You came up a flight of _stairs_. You can't possibly have gotten that 'turned around,' sir. Come out of here at once or I _will_ shoot."

Sherlock had been discovered. John reached for the gun at his lower back, pulling it free of his waistband and flicking off the safety, before he moved towards the only open door in the hall. 

"Calm down, Clemensen." 

"Sir, I didn't realize you were in here -" 

"I am sure that Mr. Holmes will happily leave, won't you, Mr. Holmes?" 

John froze in the hallway outside the open door, his heart suddenly in his throat. That slow, evil voice was familiar, despite the fact that he'd only heard it once in his life. Apparently, Magnussen was _not_ in Germany that evening. 


	10. Chapter 10

"I suppose you've come for Lady Smallwood's letters?" Magnussen asked, his tone conversational. He didn't sound even remotely bothered by the fact that Sherlock had sneaked into his private residence.

"And whatever documents you have pertaining to John Watson," Sherlock confirmed. John hesitated outside the bedroom doorway, leaning against the wall as he listened to the conversation within. Did he go in now? Did he wait to see if Sherlock could convince Magnussen? 

"Oh, Mr. Holmes... I would never give you any of the information I have collected. Especially not when it has already proven so very valuable." Magnussen gave a dry, papery chuckle that made John grimace faintly as it slid through his brain. "Do you think people would still hire you if they knew you were breaking into homes late at night? Even if you survived the death of your Mate - do you think you would? I am almost tempted to release his information just to watch you and see what you do." Magnussen paused and John could imagine Sherlock's cold stare as he watched the dangerous man. John closed his eyes, gripping the gun hard as he breathed through his nose, tense and waiting. "But, even if you survived the death of your Mate, do you think anyone would want the help of Sherlock Holmes, common burglar? I could ruin your personal _and_ professional lives now." 

"It would be your word against mine," Sherlock said, his voice low. 

"I have video of you entering Appledore. I would have sworn statements from both Ms. Andrews and Mr. Clemensen here that you had come into my home and tried to pilfer important documents related to my business, hoping to blackmail me." Magnussen paused and when he spoke again, there was a tinge of laughter in his voice. "It would be very funny to watch you try to deduce your way out of that." 

John swung around the doorframe into the room, his gun up as his eyes ticked quickly around the room, taking it all in. He did not bother aiming at the security man who had his gun drawn and pointing at Sherlock; he aimed it at Magnussen, the true threat in the room. "All right. I think it's time to go now, Sherlock."

"John!" Sherlock sounded alarmed, his eyes widening fractionally as he took in the addition of his Mate to the charged atmosphere of the room. John was moving slowly, making his way further into the room and circling the tense triangle made up of the security man, who was standing closest to the door; Sherlock, who was standing next to an open dresser beside a floor-to-ceiling window with several sheets of paper in his hands; and Magnussen, who appeared to have come out of an adjoining room and was standing almost directly across the room from John, looking completely comfortable with having two antagonistic strangers in his bedroom. 

John's eyes ticked quickly over to Sherlock. Framed against the tall window the way he was, Sherlock's dark hair and Belstaff melted into the blackness of the night beyond, making his pale face and hands appear to be floating. 

"Call off your man," John said, looking back over at Magnussen, his aim unwavering even as he continued his slow circle, moving closer to Sherlock by tiny inching steps. 

"I don't think I will, Dr. Watson. You currently have me at a disadvantage. I feel that taking away my security man would increase that disadvantage precipitously. No, I think it would be better if you were to put away _your_ gun." 

"The only way I'm putting my gun away is if Sherlock and I walk out of here, get into our car, and drive off," John said, his voice calmly determined. 

"You've broken into my house. You're seeking to steal things from me. Why would I let you walk away?" 

"Because you like having ammunition to use against people," Sherlock said, carefully setting the papers in his hands down on top of the dresser beside him. "You like having power over people, and - as you said - this will give you even more power over me." 

"Hmm," Magnussen said, a very faint smile touching his thin lips. "And there is still so much you can do for me, Mr. Holmes. All right; you and your Mate have my permission to walk out of my home unhindered. Clemensen?" 

John heard the soft 'tink!' of glass breaking and for one startled moment, he couldn't understand what was happening. Had the security man mistaken Magnussen's order and fired at Sherlock but missed and hit the window behind him? But he hadn't heard the report of the gun firing, and there was no way he would have missed it in the close confines of the room. 

Then, John saw the sudden blossom of red on Sherlock's white shirtfront, blood trickling faster and faster as Sherlock's eyes went wide and unfocused. He was falling backward the way a tree falls when its trunk has been chopped nearly through: slowly at first, gathering speed as it toppled. 

Directly behind where he had been standing, there was a small, perfect hole through the glass window. 

"Clemensen, call Olson and tell him to scout the perimeter for a sniper," Magnussen said, his voice quiet and seemingly unbothered by the possibility of a sniper on his property. "Dr. Watson, I suggest you phone 999 immediately." 

John was already shoving his gun back into the waistband of his trousers as he bent over Sherlock, his brain rushing through possibilities. Roll him over? No, the bullet had gone straight through from back to front. Any disruption of Sherlock's body at this point could increase the bleeding. The best thing to do would be to put pressure on the wound to attempt to slow whatever bleeding he could and to call for help from people with the right equipment to handle this problem. 

John's phone was in his hand almost before he'd thought to get it, the 999 operator's voice flowing over him like water over a rock as he began doing what he could for Sherlock. He responded to the operator's questions with half his mind, focusing on Sherlock as he checked his breathing and pulse, relaying the information to the operator. Magnussen and his security man were still in the room, watching with a kind of bored detachment as John scrambled to save his Mate. 

The next ten minutes felt like hours. By the time the ambulance arrived, John had watched Sherlock die hundreds of times in his own head. His arms were beginning to shake from trying to apply continuous steady pressure to the bleeding wound. He'd asked for bandages or rags to help staunch the bleeding, but neither Magnussen nor his security man had responded. They were obviously not going to either help or hinder John in his attempts to keep Sherlock alive. 

The second security man that John had seen earlier when Agatha had been walking him and Sherlock through Appledore appeared, leading the ambulance crew behind him. John gave them whatever information he could, only stepping back from Sherlock when they had literally elbowed him out of the way and taken over. He looked over at Magnussen, meeting the man's dead eyes with a murderous glare. Magnussen made a slight moue of sympathy; he understood John's anger, but what could he do? Hadn't John and Sherlock broken in? Would Sherlock have been shot if they had stayed home? 

John looked away from the man's blank, empty stare to latch his eyes back onto his Mate, watching the fast movements of the emergency response crew as they fought to stabilize Sherlock enough to move him. The blood on the plush dove grey carpet had made quite the halo around Sherlock's chest. John could feel panic brushing against the edges of his consciousness, testing him out to see if he was ready to give in to it. 

_'No,'_ John thought. _'He's going to be fine. He'll be fine.'_

"We're moving," one of the EMS men said, glancing up at John. 

"I'm his Mate - his Omega." 

"Then you're coming with us," the man said, nodding to his partner as they carefully lifted Sherlock onto a portable stretcher before raising it and locking it into place. John followed after them, not caring what happened with Magnussen as long as he didn't lose sight of Sherlock. 

Magnussen's security man led them at a quick jog to the front door of Appledore and then John was running after the EMS men to the waiting ambulance, standing back as they collapsed the stretcher to load it and Sherlock into the back of the vehicle. He could feel panic pricking at him again, testing its reception to see if he was ready to give in yet. He shoved back against it, climbing into the rear of the ambulance. 

John realized panic might be winning when he recognized that he was only dimly listening to the emergency medical team's words and was having trouble following what they were doing. He was a trained doctor, for God's sake. He had been in plenty of emergency situations. Gunshot wounds were not new territory for Dr. John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, retired. And yet, he was staring blankly at Sherlock as the EMS crew worked on him, barely aware of what was happening. 

"He's tachycardic. Respiratory distress. Here, quick, Henry, give me that." 

The words sank into John's brain slowly. He knew those words. Those words meant bad things. But Dr. Watson was buried somewhere under John's Omega reactions to seeing his Mate in mortal danger and somehow all his training was being buried under pure emotions. 

John leaned forward over the stretcher when one of the techs moved away to grab something from the wall of the ambulance. He looked down into Sherlock's slitted eyes, wondering how much of what was happening to him Sherlock was aware of. 

"Sherlock. We're losing you. Sherlock?" 

John fell away as one of the emergency medical techs pushed him back, crowding in towards Sherlock's body. John curled against the wall of the ambulance as it bounced over the dark roads towards the nearest hospital, the siren a banshee's scream overhead. For awhile, John decided to just let the panic ride him; it was easier than fighting it. He shut his eyes and surrendered. 


	11. Chapter 11

John hated the way hospital coffee tasted. There had been some improvements with the addition of coffee shops to many hospitals in the last few years, but it seemed like the majority of the cups of hospital coffee John had tried still had the subtle yet unpleasant flavor of disinfectant and fear.

He was sitting in a moderately comfortable recliner at Sherlock's bedside, listening to the reassuring beep of the heart monitor attached to his Mate. The last 24 hours had been some of the worst that John could remember, including his experiences in an active warzone. Sherlock had died. For several minutes, Sherlock had ceased to be a living person. He had flatlined and been abandoned by the surgery team, and it was only by pure chance that his heart had begun beating again. The surgeon who worked on him had told John afterward, puzzled wonder in his voice, that it was the first time he had experienced a surgery patient coming back after being pronounced dead on the table. 

John had taken the news silently, thanked the doctor, and then gone to the public toilet to lock himself in a stall and sob silently into his own cupped hands for several minutes. He barely had any of his memories from the last five years back, but he didn't need five years of memories to know that he loved his Mate. He'd not even had a full month with Sherlock since losing the majority of his memories from the last five years, but a month was enough for him to have fallen for the other man. 

The enormity of what he had nearly lost had landed on him heavily and he had let the emotions ride over him for a little while. After ten minutes of emotional indulgence, he had wiped away his tears, blown his nose on a handful of toilet paper, and gone back out to the waiting room to pass the time with magazines that were at least a year out-of-date until they came to tell him that they'd settled Sherlock into a room. 

John had spent every minute since then sitting next to Sherlock's bed, keeping an eye on his Mate as he started down the slow path to recovery after being shot. 

Magnussen had theorized that it was a sniper who had shot Sherlock. John could easily think of a sniper who might have followed them out to Appledore. Why Moran would shoot Sherlock when John was his eventual target was a mystery for Sherlock Holmes; John was too exhausted to even bother trying to tease an answer out of the Gordian knot of possibilities. 

And so John dozed, monitored Sherlock, and waited. 

When Sherlock opened his eyes nearly 12 hours after being shot, John was sleeping in the recliner beside the bed. He had been snoring softly, his head propped up on one fist and his elbow resting on the padded arm of the chair. Sherlock made a soft sound and John jerked instantly awake. 

"Hhhhnn?" Sherlock said, somehow turning the sound into a question as his eyes slid very slowly around the room and eventually over to John. 

John pushed himself up straight in the chair, clearing his throat as he leaned over the bed to catch Sherlock's hand in his own, careful of the many wires and monitors connected to his Mate. "You're in hospital. You've been shot. The bullet went straight through, but there was quite a bit of damage. It was... it was touch-and-go for a bit, but you're doing better now. They'll be taking the respirator out now that you've woken up, I think - that's what's in your mouth." John stroked his thumb across the back of Sherlock's hand, trying to soothe the other man, keeping his voice even and quiet. "I can call the nurse for you. Are you in pain?" 

Sherlock managed the very faintest of nods, his eyes sliding shut. 

"I'll call the nurse," John said, not sure if Sherlock was even hearing him. Keeping his hand wrapped firmly around Sherlock's, he pressed the button for the nurse with his free hand and then leaned out to rest his forehead against Sherlock's, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of his Mate, somewhat buried under the stronger scents of bleach, plastic tubing, and blood. John had to have his nose almost touching Sherlock's skin to catch the familiar tang of the man under the pervasive mélange of hospital. John kept his forehead on Sherlock's, taking deep, reassuring breaths of his Mate's scent, until the nurse arrived to give Sherlock an additional dose of his pain medication. 

It took another two hours before Sherlock opened his eyes again. In that time, a doctor had come by to check Sherlock and had agreed with John that he was breathing well on his own and the ventilator could be removed. It was a relief to see Sherlock's face without the plastic mask over his mouth. Even though there were still a wide variety of tubes and wires connected to Sherlock, things somehow seemed less dire without the ventilator pumping air into him. 

John had settled back into the recliner to wait, staring blankly down at his loosely joined hands where they rested in his lap as he let his mind wander. 

"John." 

It was the first clear word John had heard from his Mate in 14 hours, and he jumped up from the recliner beside the bed, reaching out to brush the curls from Sherlock's forehead as his eyes skimmed over his Mate, checking him out. 

"You're properly awake this time, I think," John said, sliding his fingertips down the side of Sherlock's face to press briefly against his neck just under his jaw, automatically checking his pulse despite the beep of the heart monitor on the other side of the bed. "How are you feeling?" 

"Not well," Sherlock admitted. He shifted very slightly, making a pained noise as he did so. His voice was tight when he spoke next. "Moran followed us to Appledore." 

"That's what I figured, as well," John said, twining his fingers through Sherlock's. It was reassuring to feel Sherlock give his hand a quick, soft squeeze. 

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that he wouldn't stay with the flat when we drove away; too much of a risk that he'd lose his target." John made a noise of agreement, trailing his fingers through Sherlock's curls. "I can only assume he shot me because he thought he was in danger of losing his chance at us. I don't know how familiar Moran is with Magnussen's work; it was possible he thought Magnussen was going to have us both executed..." Sherlock trailed off, grimacing faintly, and John looked over at his IV stand, checking his dose of morphine. It was turned up fairly high; there was nothing else he could do for Sherlock at the moment. 

"But why would he shoot you instead of me?" John asked. 

"Excellent question." Sherlock's eyes were shut against the pain, his voice a harsh whisper. "I feel confident that he shot because he knew it would get us both out of Appledore more-or-less intact. I believe he is familiar with Magnussen, at least by reputation, and knew that Magnussen would prefer us alive. I was in front of a window while you were off to one side, meaning he would have had to change his position to get a good angle on you. It's possible there were no other good vantage points near him, so shooting me became his only option if he wanted to speed along the process of us leaving Appledore. And it had the added bonus of leaving me in pain and putting me in hospital for several weeks." 

"You died," John said. He hadn't meant to mention it to Sherlock, had planned to leave that particular detail out. Sherlock's eyes opened, focusing on John's face, but he was silent. John cleared his throat nervously. Well, he'd opened the door to it now; no sense in holding back. "On the table. While they were trying to stabilize you, you died. They had given up on saving you when your heart started beating on its own. A medical miracle." 

"I couldn't leave you in danger," Sherlock said, his voice almost too soft to hear. John leaned closer, his brow furrowing. "If you'd been undeniably safe, it wouldn't have mattered if I was gone; I've done it before. But I can't leave you in danger, knowing that you're -" Sherlock broke off, groaning softly, his face tensing and body arching back as pain lanced through him. 

"I'll call the nurse," John offered, sliding his hand out of Sherlock's. But Sherlock grabbed for him, gripping tight to his hand once again. 

"No. I need to be able to think and I won't be able to if they drug me up enough to dull the pain." 

John hesitated, staring hard at the pale, sweating man laying on the hospital bed. He looked absolutely awful and John wanted nothing so much as to fix him. For a moment, Dr. Watson and John the Mated Omega fought for control. One wanted to take the situation in hand and the other wanted to bow to the orders of his Alpha. Thankfully, John had spent years fighting against his Omega nature. 

"You can think in a few hours. Right now, you need rest. You're barely 14 hours out from having a bullet tear through your chest." John pulled free of Sherlock's grip and pushed the call button. He leaned out to press a soft kiss to Sherlock's temple, burying his nose in the curls and breathing deeply. The woodsy scent of Sherlock's shampoo and conditioner were familiar and intensely comforting. John kept his face pressed softly to Sherlock's temple, murmuring, "Dr. Watson says to rest. I'll be right here while you sleep, and when you wake up, you can do as much thinking as you want." 

The nurse bustled in and John gave Sherlock's temple one last, quick kiss before standing to speak to the nurse, pressing his Omega side down so he could deal with the problems at hand. 

  
* * * * *

John found the next two weeks to be very similar to his own stay in hospital the month before, but with the roles reversed now. Sherlock was a much worse patient than John had been, arguing with the nurses when they came around and refusing to stay in his bed unless John were sitting next to him and watching over him. John frequently came back into the room after leaving for a meal to find Sherlock up and pacing the room, claiming that the movement helped him to think. John gave up leaving the hospital room for more than a few minutes at a time, getting most of his meals from the vending machines one floor up. 

The string of visitors that came by to check on the recovering detective was very similar to the ones who had come to visit John when he was the one recuperating in a hospital bed. Mrs. Hudson came to fuss over him, claiming that 'you boys are taking years off my life - years!' as she fluttered around the bed straightening the blankets and fluffing the pillows while Sherlock frowned subtly, silent and resigned. 

DI Greg Lestrade came by, his expression bemused. "You two going to keep this pattern going for long? Last month was John's turn, this month it's Sherlock's... will I need to visit you in hospital again after Christmas, John?" 

"I sincerely hope not," John said dryly, but Greg had sympathy in his eyes as he reached out to clap John lightly on the shoulder. 

"The shooting is being handled, but not by me. Magnussen threw his weight around and kept me out of it, I'm afraid," Greg said, brows furrowed. "I could try poking into it a bit, but I can't guarantee I'll be able to get anything." 

"Don't bother," Sherlock muttered from the bed, eyes closed as he rested back against his pillows. "If Magnussen doesn't want you involved, you won't be involved. You'll gain nothing by prodding at it." 

"As you like," Greg said, shrugging. "But if there's anything I can do for you two... just ask, you know?" 

"We do. Thanks," John said, and Greg nodded to them as he took his leave of the hospital room. 

John was deeply amused when Sherlock's parents stopped in several hours later, trailed by Mycroft who wore an expression of someone who had recently bitten into a lemon. John stepped away from the hospital bed while Sherlock's mum fussed around him like a worried dragon, somehow seeming both tender and threatening at the same time, muttering viciously about the person who had shot Sherlock. 

John moved over by the far wall to watch, allowing Sherlock some privacy with his parents. Mycroft stepped up next to him, his voice low when he spoke. "We've been trying to track Moran, but he's adept at staying underneath the radar when he needs to." 

"I thought Sherlock didn't want you getting involved with Moran?" 

"It seemed time for me to try and intervene," Mycroft said dryly, nodding towards his bed-ridden younger brother. 

"Right," John said, grimacing slightly. Would Sherlock have been shot if Mycroft had intervened sooner? But then again, Mycroft was having trouble tracking Moran now; there was no indication that he would have been any more successful two weeks earlier. 

"I'm afraid there is nothing I can do about Magnussen, though. Honestly, I don't know if it's better or worse that he's not pressing charges for the attempted burglary of sensitive documents. It certainly wouldn't look good if he _did_ tell the police about it, but he has all the power now." 

"He always did," John admitted, and Mycroft grimaced. 

"True. I don't know why Sherlock thought he could steal anything away from Magnussen. It is better to do what he asks of you when he asks it and to try to avoid drawing attention to yourself otherwise. People who fight him have a tendency to wind up dead." 

John shook his head, pressing his lips. He had gotten angry the last time he had tried to discuss Magnussen with Mycroft, and he wasn't reacting to _this_ conversation any better than the last. Mycroft _was_ the British government, according to Sherlock, and John couldn't understand why he would let Magnussen continue unhindered. Surely Magnussen being 'occasionally useful' did not outweigh the fact that he was frequently a problem, did it? 

"I'm going to go out and get something to eat," John said, deciding to give himself some space from the topic. "Will you be staying long?" 

"As long as Mother feels the need to hover," Mycroft admitted, glancing across the room to the handsome older woman who was attempting to stroke Sherlock's hair as he tried to duck his head away, looking vaguely frustrated. He did not enjoy being touched, John had noticed, unless it was John himself doing the touching. John was the exception to many of Sherlock's rules. 

John smiled faintly at the realization before turning back to Mycroft. "All right. I'll be back within an hour, then." 

He desperately wanted some real food, and a search on his mobile promised that there was a fairly good cafe a block away from the hospital. He headed out, looking forward to something besides vending machine crisps and stale chocolate. 

He was nearly through with an excellent sandwich and a passable salad when Moran sat down opposite him at the cafe table. John froze, sandwich halfway to his mouth, wishing he'd brought his gun along with him. Unfortunately, it was safely tucked under an extra pillowcase in the nightstand drawer next to Sherlock's hospital bed. 

"Dr. Watson, hello, again." Moran nodded faintly, his expression distant. "I feel that I should apologize for shooting your Mate, but since I wasn't aiming to kill, all I've really done is made him uncomfortable for awhile. I needed the pair of you away from Magnussen; he was going to interfere with my objectives." 

So, it _had_ been Moran who'd shot Sherlock. John filed that information away; he couldn't do anything about it right then. "Your objectives are to destroy my trust in Sherlock and then to kill me. I don't see how talking with Magnussen was going to interfere with either of those." 

"Having a common enemy tends to draw people together, Dr. Watson... even people who are at a time of strife." Moran paused, his eyes ticking up to John's for a split second as he took in John's expression. "Is Sherlock enjoying having unlimited access to drugs during his hospital stay?" 

John frowned. Were they meant to still be pretending to be at odds with each other? Better to play it safe and assume that they were until he'd had a chance to talk to Sherlock about it. 

"I don't want to talk about that," John said, pushing his half-eaten sandwich away from himself as if the topic had made him lose his appetite. Moran smiled, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forward onto his elbows. 

"I'm sure he's loving it," Morgan said. "Easiest drug access imaginable. Definitely easier than all those years he spent sucking cock to earn his next high." 

John's mouth tightened as he fought not to react to Moran's words, his fingers tapping lightly on the Formica tabletop. Sherlock's past was in the past; it did not affect their present relationship beyond making John feel slightly unhappy, and he could deal with his own emotional reactions. 

"It was lucky for him that you came along when you did; he'd only been clean for about six months. That Detective Inspector with New Scotland Yard had been letting him come on cases for about three months when you showed up and gave him something to concentrate on besides heroin. And now, even his fascination with _you_ has worn off." Moran smiled mockingly, looking John up and down. "An old, tired, used-up Omega? Who could blame him for getting tired of you. Really, I'm surprised you kept him interested for five years." 

John's jaw clenched almost painfully tight and he gave a little sniff, staring hard at Moran as his brain ticked through exactly how hard he would need to punch Moran to dislocate his jaw. Sure, he'd probably break a couple of fingers doing it, but it would be worth it. 

"Of course, it wasn't a _full_ five years, was it? There were two whole years in there when he left you." 

John went absolutely still, his incessantly tapping fingers freezing on the tabletop as Moran's words brought back something Sherlock had said earlier when he'd woken up in the hospital room: "I couldn't leave you in danger. If you'd been undeniably safe, it wouldn't have mattered if I was gone; I've done it before." 

"Have you remembered those years yet, Dr. Watson? Have you remembered the roof of St. Bart's and the months that came afterward when every day was a battle to decide if you should keep going or end yourself? Have you remembered how angry you were when he came back after two years of silence to tell you he wasn't actually dead and that he'd only let you believe it for so long because he was afraid you'd say something to let the world at large know that he'd faked his death so he could secretly destroy my Mate's legacy?" Moran leaned onto his elbows harder, causing the Formica tabletop to creak and give slightly under his weight. He glared at John, his brown eyes almost sparking with the fury in them. "All those years of lies, and yet you think that he tells you the truth now? You think that he wouldn't keep you out of the loop because you're his _Mate?_ You were his Mate when he faked his suicide in front of you and let you believe he was gone for two years. Once an addict, always an addict. For awhile, mysteries kept him off the hard stuff, but maybe Mated life is proving more boring than he'd guessed. Maybe mysteries aren't as good as they were when he was single and could go swanning off anytime he needed to. Maybe he's only back on heroin because of _you_." 

Moran shoved back from the table, storming out of the restaurant without waiting for John's reply. John no longer had to pretend disinterest in his food; his stomach was churning at Moran's accusations. The drugs claim was still ridiculous... but faking suicide and leaving John alone for two years? There was something about those words that felt true. 

John pushed back from the table, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. He had to get back to hospital; he needed to talk to his Mate. 


	12. Chapter 12

John could hear voices from Sherlock's room as he walked down the painfully white hospital hallway, his shoes squeaking lightly against the tile floor. He heard the chirp of a woman's voice and then the lower rumble of Sherlock's reply; either his parents were still in the room with him or he was being unusually polite to the nurses.

A quick glance at his watch told John that he'd barely been gone thirty minutes, and he slowed his pace. He couldn't really chase Sherlock's family away simply because he had some questions about allegations a murderous sniper had made. He hesitated outside the door of the room, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried to decide what to do. It was almost a relief when Mycroft's head popped out to glance over at John. 

"Thank God. Mother has started going on about the time Sherlock broke his leg in primary school; I was beginning to wonder which one of us was going to snap first, to be honest. Now that you're back, Sherlock can claim he wants some time alone with his Mate and we'll have to acquiesce to the patient's wishes." Mycroft gave a tight smile, but John could see real relief behind the expression. He followed Mycroft into the hospital room, standing back as Mycroft interrupted his mother's story. 

Sherlock looked over at John and his eyes narrowed slightly as he read the tension in John's face and posture. He interrupted Mycroft mid-word, using the bed controls to raise himself up more. "I need to speak with my Mate alone. I'll be stuck in this hospital bed for at least several more weeks; you are welcome to come and reminiscence about embarrassing childhood memories at some other point." 

Mrs. Holmes took his dismissal in stride, a faint smile quirking her mouth as she leaned out to brush her fingertips through his dark curls. "All right. We'll come back again in a few days, once you've recovered a bit more. And you and John will _both_ be coming to Christmas dinner at home." She turned and gave John a quick, warm smile. "It's good to see you again, John." 

"You as well, ma'am," John said, stepping forward and holding out one hand to shake. She glanced at his hand, amused, before pulling him into a quick but thorough hug. 

"We'll see you in a few weeks at Christmas, if not sooner. Mycroft, it's time to go." She grabbed her bag from the foot of Sherlock's hospital bed and moved toward the door, Mr. Holmes following in her wake after giving Sherlock's foot a quick squeeze through the blankets. Mycroft, looking relieved, nodded at John and Sherlock before following his parents out. 

Sherlock's eyes never left John. He was still propped up against several pillows, his chest bare except for the bandages and the adhesive pads his heart monitor was attached to. Despite his injury, pallor, and near nakedness, he still seemed to be in complete control of the room. John wondered briefly how much of that was due to Sherlock being his Alpha Mate and how much of it was just Sherlock. He wished - for the millionth time, it felt like - that he had his memories back. He desperately wanted the early days so he could compare the Sherlock then, before they were a Mated pair, to the Sherlock he had known since waking up in hospital the month before. 

John cleared his throat as he shrugged out of his jacket, moving over to the recliner next to Sherlock's bed to lay it over the chair's back. Sherlock tracked him as he moved, undoubtedly picking up lots of subtle clues from John's expression and the way he walked. It almost made John want to smile, but then the memory of Moran's words would stab through him again and the urge would fade away. 

He hesitated next to the recliner, debating whether or not to sit next to Sherlock. After a moment, though, he paced back around the hospital bed to stand at the foot of it, looking up the full length of Sherlock's body rather than standing next to him. He wanted a little distance for this discussion. 

"I saw Moran again. He sat down at my table in a nearby cafe while I was having a quick sandwich." 

Sherlock had already been sitting perfectly still in the bed, but he seemed to grow even more still, his body absolutely paralyzed as he stared at his Mate and let the words sink in. Once again, John had been approached by the man who was planning to kill him and Sherlock had been unable to intervene. His eyes scanned over John quickly, but there were no injuries to find. After his perusal, his brow had furrowed slightly, but he did not give any other indications that John's admission had upset him. 

"He uh... he mentioned that you disappeared for a couple of years." John hesitated, shifting from foot to foot and staring down at the lumps Sherlock's toes made in the white hospital blanket. "That you faked your suicide to convince me that you were dead so that you could disappear." 

"Not just to convince _you_ , John. I had to convince everyone. You and I had been involved in a... game of wits with a criminal mastermind for some time. His name was Jim Moriarty, and he was the most dangerous man in the world." 

"Oh?" John asked, not really sure what that had to do with Sherlock lying to him. 

"Much in the same way that I am a consulting detective, Moriarty was a consulting criminal. He would arrange crimes for people who couldn't do it on their own; because of his unique occupation, he had created a criminal web that crossed the entire globe. When he killed himself on the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital three years ago, he left me in a hard position. You see, he had hired hitmen to take out Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you. Their orders were simple: if I did not jump off the roof of St. Bart's, they would kill the three people who were the most important to me. I managed to avoid _actually_ killing myself, but I could not contact any of you because I could not know if you were being watched even after Moriarty's death. Since keeping my survival a secret was paramount to me unraveling Moriarty's web and destroying his many contacts across the globe, I could not contact anyone and tell them the truth." 

John leaned forward, resting his palms on the crossbar on the foot of Sherlock's bed, his head down as he absorbed what Sherlock was saying. He wasn't sure if the lack of memories helped or hindered him at the moment. He felt betrayed by what had happened, but it was a shallow reaction with no past hurt behind it. 

John sighed, raising his head to look at Sherlock. "I understand. I don't like that you lied to me, but I understand why you felt you had to do it." 

Sherlock raised one eyebrow slightly, surprise washing over his face as he stared at his Mate. He opened his mouth for a moment and then shut it, obviously unsure of what to say. 

"I guess I didn't take it this well the first time around?" 

"You tackled me to the floor and tried to strangle me. Twice." 

John started to laugh but a faint flash of memory brushed over him: his own hands closing around Sherlock's throat as they toppled to the floor, both of them in nice suits, the attack accompanied by the sounds of people gasping and cutlery hitting dishes. 

"Were we... in a restaurant?" John asked, squinting slightly. 

"Memory?" Sherlock asked, and when John nodded, Sherlock said, "Yes. You had taken the woman you'd been seeing for six months there to propose to her." 

John was taken aback. He'd proposed to someone? He'd proposed to someone he'd only been dating for _six months?_ But then again, Sherlock had been gone for two years, and John had always had a habit of falling into rebound relationships when a serious relationship had ended... 

John shook his head, shaking away his suppositions. None of it mattered. The past was gone; right now, he was in hospital with his injured Mate. _That_ was what mattered. 

John rounded the bed, moving over to the recliner he had spent so many hours in over the last few days. He plopped into it and twisted to rest his cheek against Sherlock's bare waist, shutting his eyes so he could breathe in the familiar scent of Sherlock's skin. Sherlock hesitated a moment before reaching out to run his fingertips through John's hair, his blunt nails tickling over John's scalp lightly. 

"I forgive you for lying to me. I just want to be clear on that," John murmured, keeping his cheek pressed into Sherlock's side. "I understand that you did what you felt was right. I accept it. Moran is still trying to drive a wedge between us, and I'm _not_ going to let him." 

Sherlock rested his palm against the back of John's neck, fingers rubbing gently at the bond bite he had put in the skin. John sighed softly, laying his arms over Sherlock's body as he got comfortable. There were no more words between them then; there was no need for them. Sherlock's eyes eventually drifted shut as he let his head fall back onto his pillow. He continued gently stroking his fingertips over John's mark, the warmth of his Mate across his stomach more soothing and soporific than any drug the hospital could pump into his veins. 

When the nurse came in an hour later to check Sherlock's vitals, she found them fast asleep, John splayed across Sherlock with his Mate's hand lightly cupping the back of his neck. 


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock was discharged ten days later. He was not moving with his usual smooth grace as he mounted the stairs to 221B while Mrs. Hudson promised tea and biscuits as she fluttered back into her own flat, but he was out of bed and in no danger of hemorrhaging to death. John would happily accept every small bit of progress.

Once Sherlock made it into the flat, he stopped in the middle of the room to stare angrily at the wall above the couch. John followed just behind him, loaded down with a bag containing the clothes Sherlock had been wearing the night they'd gone to Appledore and a small paper bag from a pharmacy with Sherlock's prescriptions in it. He dropped the laundry on the floor next to the coat rack, promising himself that he'd deal with it in a bit, and carried the pharmacy bag to the kitchen table. He gagged at the gentle but pervasive aroma of rot that greeted him. 

"Sherlock, I think one of your experiments has gone off," John called, turning quickly away from the kitchen. "Possibly _all_ of them. I can bin everything or you can come sort out which ones are salvageable." 

"Later," Sherlock said, stepping over to lower himself into his armchair, still glancing intermittently at the wall over the couch. 

"What are you thinking?" John asked, coming back into the sitting room and glancing over at Sherlock's web of information tacked up on the wall. 

"The only way to stop Moran would be to catch him in the act of assassinating you." 

"I don't think that would actually work," John said dryly, "seeing as I'll be _dead_ at the end of it." 

"That is a problem," Sherlock admitted, steepling his fingers under his chin and leaning back in his chair. He hissed softly as his still-tender gunshot wound pressed against the back of the armchair, grimacing. 

"And what about Magnussen? We obviously can't steal the information back from him," John said, crossing over to sit in his own armchair, relieved to be back in the flat again; the recliner at the hospital hadn't been awful, but it hadn't been _his_. 

"No, I'll have to bargain for it. I believe I've figured out what I'll need to do to get back both your documents and Lady Smallwood's letters, but we won't have a chance to move forward with it until Christmas. Since that gives us a good three days to figure out what to do with Moran, I suggest we concentrate on him for now." 

"Well, you've already said that all you need to do is let him get caught killing me. Just phone Greg and have him waiting to slap the cuffs on Moran once my body cools." 

"Greg?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his seeming contemplation of John's knees. 

"Lestrade," John said. 

"Ah. Actually, that's not a bad plan." 

John gave a quick, disbelieving laugh, staring at Sherlock open-mouthed. Sherlock glanced up at John's face, looking confused. "Me dying is 'not a bad plan'?" 

"Not _you_ ," Sherlock said. "But a convincing replica... yes, I think that would work. While at hospital, I actually phoned one of the waxwork modelers at Madame Tussauds who owes me a favor. I think I'll text him again and confirm what I need." 

"Wait, stop. I'm not following this. A waxwork?" 

"Yes, of course. You didn't think I'd let Moran _actually_ shoot you?" 

"You're going to have a waxwork made of _me?_ " 

"Yes. Try to keep up," Sherlock said, pulling his mobile out of his hip pocket and beginning to text rapidly. "The dummy I made out of clothes was a temporary fix to keep Moran convinced that we were still at odds with one another. But we're going to need to play it up a bit more if we're going to convince him to move forward." Sherlock put his phone down, a faint smile playing across his lips as he looked John over. "I'm afraid I'll need to stage a rather public storming out. I need to take some photographs to Lawrence for reference anyway... and you'll need to stop by so that he can measure you, but that can wait a few hours. I'll text you the address." 

John squinted slightly, unsure how to respond. In the space of five minutes, he'd been told that he needed to be shot for Moran to be captured, but that a waxwork would stand in for him during the actual shooting, and that he'd need to go out later that day to be measured for the waxwork... and it was still a comparably normal day in his life. 

"I'll go put the kettle on," John said decisively, rising from his armchair as Sherlock lifted his phone to respond to a text, presumably from Lawrence the waxwork modeler. 

"None for me, thanks," Sherlock called, rising from his chair and tucking his phone into his pocket. "I need to go see Lawrence now and I'll need you to follow in an hour. Could you shout down the stairs at me after I've screamed at you?" 

"I uh... sure," John said, stopping in the doorway to the kitchen and tilting his head slightly to one side as he stared at Sherlock in bemusement. 

"Just in case Moran is hidden somewhere out on the street and can hear it," Sherlock explained, grabbing his Belstaff and scarf from the coat rack. "Even if he can't hear it, if he's watching it will look good for me to appear to be shouting up at you as I exit the flat. Just remember to follow after me in an hour, all right?" 

"Right," John said, moving back into the sitting room as Sherlock tied his scarf. 

"And go ahead and bin all the experiments; they'll all have gone off by now anyway." Sherlock leaned out, pressing the briefest kiss to John's forehead, before he swept down the stairs. When he reached the front door, he jerked it open and spun to scream up the stairs, "It isn't my fault you can't remember it! And it isn't my bloody job to keep you from feeling like you're Mated to a liar!" 

John was startled for a half a second before he shouted back, "Why don't you run away again? It's what you're good at!" He smiled faintly at the end to show Sherlock he didn't mean the words. 

Sherlock pressed one long-fingered hand quickly to his mouth, hiding his grin, and then he was sweeping out the front door, slamming it behind him. From the flat below, John hear Mrs. Hudson's voice calling up, "John? Is everything all right?" 

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he said, stepping out onto the landing to look over the railing. Mrs. Hudson was standing just outside her flat, her face tight with worry. "It's all right. We aren't actually fighting. He thinks we're being watched and we were putting on a show." 

"Oh. Oh, I see," Mrs. Hudson said, glancing over at the front door. "I'll bring your tea up in just a moment, then." 

"I'll come down," John said, reaching back to shut the door behind him. He had an hour to kill before he could head after Sherlock; there was no reason not to spend it chatting with Mrs. Hudson. 

By the time his mobile buzzed with the texted address from Sherlock, John had eaten several very good biscuits and had drunk two cups of tea with Mrs. Hudson, listening with mild interest to her stories about Mrs. Turner, the woman who lived in the flat next door, and her recent gambling habit. Still, it was nice to escape into a cab, on his way back to Sherlock's side. 

John found the experience of being measured for a waxwork to be very odd. Lawrence, a slow-moving older man with a soothing voice and tired blue eyes, kept apologizing for the number of measurements he was taking and reminding John that he wasn't taking nearly as many as he would for one of the waxwork figures that went on display in Madame Tussauds. 

"It doesn't need to be as detailed as one of those," Sherlock explained, pacing behind John and Lawrence in the work room. There was not a lot of room for pacing since every available nook and cranny was crammed with bits of the waxworker's trade, but Sherlock gave it a good effort. 

"No, not nearly that detailed," Lawrence agreed mildly, lifting a notebook to glance at some of the measurements he'd already written down. 

"We'll need to return home in separate cabs," Sherlock said as he paced past John, "just in case Moran is watching for our return. It needs to look as if we are coming from two separate locations." 

"That's fine - I'll stop to grab something for dinner," John said, trying to minimize how much he moved his mouth while Lawrence was leaning close with a tiny ruler, making measurements of the space between his upper lip and nose. 

"Almost done, Dr. Watson," Lawrence said, turning to write in the notebook he'd left sitting open on a desk behind him. "Just a few more measurements." 

"It will be ready by tomorrow evening, correct?" Sherlock asked, prowling over to look at Lawrence's open notebook, twisting his head to read the numbers and notations. 

"Possibly even by tomorrow afternoon, but it will not look as good as it would if you could give me a little more time, Mr. Holmes." 

"Perfection is not necessary in this. It only needs to be good enough to fool someone at a distance," Sherlock said, spinning away from the notebook to stalk behind John once more. 

"It will definitely do that," Lawrence said, stepping back from John to lift his notebook and flip through it. "I have everything I need. I will stay late tonight to work on the bust for you, Mr. Holmes." 

"As always, Lawrence, it is a pleasure," Sherlock said, nodding as he strode to the workroom door, pulling it open and glancing back. "Come along, John." 

John rose from his chair, giving Lawrence a quick nod, but the waxworker was already lost in his notebook and a stack of photographs that Sherlock had given him of John's face from different angles. 

"I'll see you back at the flat," Sherlock said once John joined him in the long hallway outside Lawrence's workroom, John working to match his pace to Sherlock's longer stride. "I don't think we'll need any more public fights, but it would probably be best if we avoided being in the same room for long periods over the next 24 hours. I feel confident that Moran is only waiting for his chance now, and I intend to give it to him." Sherlock paused in the long back hallway of Madame Tussauds, turning to look at John. "Tomorrow evening, I'll ask Lestrade to meet me a few blocks away. I've established that the best spot for Moran to set up his rifle is on the roof of the office building two blocks over; it's the perfect height to look directly into the window of your old bedroom upstairs. I've arranged it with Lawrence for the waxwork to have one moving arm; the movements won't fool anyone standing in the same room, but a sniper looking through a scope several blocks away, aiming through a sheer curtain, will almost certainly see exactly what I want him to see: John Watson sitting in an armchair, slowly flipping through the pages of a book." 

"That's fantastic," John said, impressed with Sherlock's attention to detail. 

"Lestrade and I will be waiting at the base of the office building. When we hear Moran take the shot, we'll climb up the only ladder that leads to the rooftop so Lestrade can make his arrest. I'm sure Mycroft will be able to assist NSY in finding enough on Moran to guarantee that he will not be bothering us again." 

"Where will I be during all of this?" 

"On the landing outside our flat. I want you well away from windows, just on the off-chance that Moran decides to prowl around and peek in any of them before setting up to take his shot." 

"And... how long am I going to be cowering on the landing?" John asked, not really liking the suggestion. 

"Hopefully not long. I imagine that Moran will take note of my leaving the flat and take the shot quite soon afterwards. I'm sure he'd find perverse joy in the idea of me coming home to find your body." 

John lowered his head, sickness swimming through him. If not for the waxwork figure Sherlock was having constructed, things could have very well ended exactly like that. 

Sherlock stepped close to John, sliding his hands around John's waist slowly to meet at his mid-back, fingers threading together as he held the shorter man in a comforting embrace. "He will not actually shoot you, John. We are taking every precaution to be sure that you will be safe." 

"Right," John said, trying to shake off the horrible feeling that came with knowing what it would do to Sherlock to find his Mate's dead body. He wrapped his own arms around Sherlock, taking the offered comfort and resting his cheek on Sherlock's chest for a moment, enjoying the smooth texture of Sherlock's button-up against his skin. 

"You will stay away from the windows in the flat for the next day. Until we have the waxwork installed, we cannot guarantee that Moran will not actually shoot _you_." 

"So, I'm stuck on the couch for awhile, then?" 

"It seems so," Sherlock said, making a sympathetic face. "But I feel confident that Moran will be dealt with before we leave for Christmas dinner at my parents' home." 

"Didn't you say that you would be addressing the problems with Magnussen by Christmas?" John asked, lifting his head to look up at Sherlock. 

" _On_ Christmas," Sherlock corrected. "All the pieces will be in place then. Just make sure you bring your gun." 

"To your parents house for Christmas dinner?" John asked, incredulous, but Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow in response. He was obviously not ready to speak about his plan for Magnussen yet. 

"Be back at the flat within the hour. I'll start to panic otherwise," Sherlock said, leaning to drop a soft kiss on John's upturned face before he turned and moved down the hallway and out onto the street. John stood, bemused and shaking his head faintly, before he followed after Sherlock to catch his own cab. 

By the time he returned to the flat with bags of steaming Mediterranean takeaway, Sherlock was perched at the kitchen table, leaning over his microscope as he peered at slide after slide. John could see several new Petri dishes and test tubes arranged on the table; he had forgotten to bin all of Sherlock's old experiments and he grimaced faintly. Luckily, Sherlock had taken care of them. 

John set the bags of takeaway on the table, glancing over at the wastebin as he did so. Sherlock had even emptied it out so that the spoiled experiments wouldn't continue stinking up the kitchen. Perhaps the smell had been bothering Sherlock while he tried to examine his slides. 

"Food's here," John offered, but Sherlock merely glanced over and then returned to the microscope. John took his own container to the couch, settling down to eat. 

Eventually, John cleared away the rest of the untouched food, nestling it into the refrigerator next to a plate of some sort of green mould which he couldn't be sure wasn't just some extremely old takeaway and not actually one of Sherlock's experiments. 

He stood next to the sink for a long moment, watching Sherlock as he bent over his microscope, taking notes with one hand as he adjusted the view with his other. After several minutes of John's silent contemplation, Sherlock seemed to become aware of the other man's stare. 

"If you're desperate for something to do, you could try updating your blog," he suggested, not looking away from the slide on the microscope. 

"My what?" John asked, startled. 

"Your blog. It's like an online journal -" 

"I _know_ what a blog is. I didn't realize I had one," John said. 

"Your therapist suggested you keep it when you had trouble adjusting to civilian life. Quite a few of our old cases are written up on it," Sherlock said, turning away from his microscope to look at John. A brief expression of surprise crossed his face and he said, "Oh. Yes, I suppose rereading old entries might jog some of your memories, too." 

"Oh, you bloody idiot," John said, staring at Sherlock with a mixture of annoyance and fondness. "You've only just thought to suggest it to me?" 

"I can't think of _everything_ ," Sherlock said defensively. "It should be under the bookmarks on your laptop's web browser." 

Several minutes later, John was once more settled on the sofa, his laptop resting on his thighs as he scrolled through his blog entries back to the very beginning. It was actually quite enjoyable, sitting on the comfortable sofa with a full stomach and a blog filled with interesting stories to read, accompanied by the soft 'clink' as Sherlock occasionally switched out microscope slides in the other room. It was hardly surprising that, after the last few high tension weeks and mostly sleepless nights, John ended up falling asleep with the laptop open on his lap after reading through most of the blog entries. 

He didn't wake up until nearly dawn, the sitting room windows no longer the absolute blackness of night but the softer navy blue of approaching day. His laptop had long since powered off to save its battery. The light in the kitchen was off, leaving one small lamp in the sitting room the only source of light, and Sherlock was asleep in his armchair across the room, his body turned sideways towards John on the couch, his legs pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around his legs, and his head leaning sideways onto the chair back. 

John smiled faintly. Sherlock had fallen asleep like that that many times before. It seemed like anytime John found Sherlock asleep in the chair, he was curled up like a cat. 

John startled. The memories of Sherlock sleeping in his chair hadn't burst on him like a revelation... they'd just _been_ there for John to peruse. He hesitated, heart pounding. 

_'Remember something,'_ he told himself, scrambling for something _to_ remember. 

Did he remember meeting Sherlock? 

Of course. Mike Stamford had taken him to St. Bart's Lab B and he'd first seen Sherlock leaning over a microscope, staring at slides and making notes with his free hand. He'd loaned Sherlock his phone and Sherlock had used nothing more than the state of the phone and the way John held himself to deduce nearly his entire past. 

John drew in a sharp breath, stunned at everything that was freely available to him. The noise made Sherlock twitch and the detective raised his head, groaning softly as he unwound his arms from around his legs to rub at his tight neck muscles. He stopped when his eyes landed on John across the room. He was rising from his chair and stepping to the sofa within a second of seeing John's expression. 

"What is it? What's happened?" 

"Pink," John said. "Because she was dressed all in pink, you knew where the case would be pink as well. I shot the cabbie because you were going to take that damned pill. We went to a Chinese theatre show and fought international smugglers. Moriarty strapped bombs to people. You are rubbish at remembering things that you don't think are important, but you remember everything about me. We were Mated just days before Moriarty made it necessary for you to fake your death. I met Mary Morstan at the clinic and almost married her, not knowing she was an assassin in Janine Moriarty's employ." 

"Everything?" Sherlock asked in a bare whisper, looking stunned. "You remember everything?" 

"I don't know if it's everything, but it's enough," John said, shutting his blank laptop so he could set it aside and reach towards his Mate. "It's enough to know how much I love you." 

Sherlock made a weak noise, swaying slightly where he stood, his expression going tight and pained. Slowly, his eyes reddened with unshed tears. He collapsed all at once, falling onto the couch next to John and pressing his face into John's belly, his breaths shaky and hitching as he fought against the sudden flood of emotions. He wrapped his arms violently around John's waist, clinging to him like a man who'd fallen into the rapids might cling to a rock. John wrapped one arm around Sherlock's shoulders, using the other hand to stroke gently though Sherlock's curls, disheveling them into a fluffy mess. After a moment, he realized Sherlock was whispering something against his stomach between each hitching breath and he leaned down a little. 

"What?" he asked, voice gentle. "I can't hear you." 

Sherlock turned his head slightly to look up at John's face, his cheeks wet and his nose red. He stared at John, his mouth trembling faintly before he whispered, "You're back. You're back. If there was a God, I'd thank Him." 

John snorted a quick laugh, tightening his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock buried his face back into John's belly, tightening his arms almost to the point of pain, and John stroked the taller man's curls as the sun slowly brightened the sitting room to day. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More unrepentant smut.

"It's amazing," John said, staring at the wax replica of his own bust. "It is absolutely amazing."

"It will do," Sherlock replied negligently, laying the jumper and trousers he'd borrowed from John's dresser over the sofa and dropping an armload of tea towels on the cushion next to them. 

Lawrence had apparently worked late into the night, showing up at the flat just after lunch with the waxwork bust and a pair of wax arms tucked inside a wheeled case. After a quick demonstration to Sherlock of the animatronics that would cause one of the wax arms to look as if it were turning the pages of a book, Lawrence had taken his leave of them, promising to come back after Christmas to collect the arms and bust. 

John put the bust down on the far end of sofa from where Sherlock was working, settling it next to the two disembodied wax arms. He headed over to his armchair, sitting down comfortably to read the newspaper while Sherlock moved around the sitting room, collecting things to fill out the borrowed jumper and trousers, muttering softly to himself as he worked. 

John shifted in his armchair, looking up from the newspaper to watch Sherlock adjusting the tea towels he had stuffed into the jumper. A slow smile spread across John's face as he watched Sherlock working. Sherlock still commanded John's attention when they were in the same room and seemed in complete control of everything around him; it was not just due to him being John's Mated Alpha, John now knew. It was just Sherlock. 

"You're smiling at me," Sherlock said, not looking up from the jumper. "Why?" 

"Just happy," John said. 

Sherlock looked over at John, his expression puzzled. "The second most dangerous man in the world is going to attempt to end your life tonight and in two days' time we'll be confronting the Napoleon of blackmail... and you're _happy?_ " 

"I have back my memories," John said, folding the newspaper and setting it on the small side table to the right of his armchair. "Probably not everything, since there will still be lingering damage to my brain... but I have back enough to fill in a lot of the blank spaces that have been torturing me for the last month. It's hard to be unhappy when that's happening." 

Sherlock 'hmmm'ed in response, turning back to the jumper. A few minutes later, he stood, taking in the finished product for a second before looking over at John. "I've already phoned Lestrade to tell him the details. He's agreed to come along even though someone else is handling the investigation into the explosion last month. I simply pointed out that they had no suspect on that case yet and I was handing a suspect for an attempted shooting directly to him, so he shouldn't consider the two cases connected. I'm meeting him around 7pm and I expect Moran will not wait long after I leave to set up for his assassination attempt." 

"And... why, exactly, can't I come with you?" John asked. 

"He would see you leaving. Why should he shoot the dummy if he's watched you walk out the front door moments before?" 

"I don't like the idea of hiding out on the landing," John said, frowning lightly. 

"Of course, you don't," Sherlock said, moving over to sit in across from John in his black leather armchair, wincing slightly as he settled into it; two days out of the hospital had not dramatically improved his level of pain and he still moved carefully as he tried to protect his wound. "But, that is where you will be safest _and_ where you will be least likely to be seen by Moran and give away our ruse. I will text you when Moran is safely in police custody." 

John sighed; he didn't like the plan, but he had to admit that he couldn't think of a better alternative. His desire to not act like a coward wasn't really comparable to the need to get Moran out of their lives. 

"It's a shame Moran couldn't have just imitated Moriarty when he killed himself," John muttered darkly, reaching out to snap the newspaper off the table. 

"Hmm, yes. It would have saved us so many problems," Sherlock agreed, casting a faint smile towards his Mate at John's pique. "You told me that they were Mated?" 

"That's what Moran said in the cafe," John said, lowering the unopened newspaper to his knees. 

"Then I suppose his desire to track us down and make us suffer is hardly surprising; there is very little I wouldn't do if someone had caused your death." Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, staring hard at John. "I must admit that there is a part of me that didn't want to bring Lestrade in on Moran's capture tonight. I wanted to take care of him myself so that I could enact some revenge for his injury of you last month." 

John's eyes widened slightly. Sherlock noticed and glanced down, looking slightly ashamed of himself. He shifted in his chair and couldn't stop himself from wincing and raising one hand to press lightly over the still-tender wound in his chest. John felt a flare of anger and had to admit, "I understand. There are times I want to kill him for what he did to you." 

Sherlock had been rubbing lightly at the tender spot and he paused, eyes flicking up at John to judge the honesty of his words. Whatever he saw in John's face convinced him and his look of shame melted away. He leaned forward in his chair and John mirrored the movement, meeting his lips in a soft but heartfelt kiss. 

When Sherlock finally broke away, he sighed, his expression full of frustrated regret. "There are few things I would like as much as spending the day in bed with you, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be of much use to you," he said, and gestured toward the side of his chest where Moran's bullet had torn through him. 

John hesitated, staring at Sherlock and rolling possibilities over in his mind. After several silent moments, John spoke, his voice slow and cautious. "We could still spend the day in bed... if you would be willing to... let me top?" He hadn't meant to turn it into a question, but there it was. 

Sherlock's eyes widened as he slowly sat up straight in his armchair. Slowly, a flush crept up his neck and onto his cheeks. John smiled slowly at the suffusion of blood in Sherlock's cheeks; that was agreement. 

John rose from his armchair, offering his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock didn't hesitate, wrapping his own long fingers around John's and rising to follow his Mate towards their bedroom. 

It was dim in the room, the shades and curtains both drawn in an attempt to keep Moran from seeing in. The only light in the room was what could filter dimly around the window coverings, but John didn't turn on the lights. He liked the dimness, and their eyes would adjust quickly. 

He led Sherlock to the bed, still moving slowly. They were both recovering from major injuries; this would definitely not be a wild rut, but John did not mind at all. When they reached the bed, John pushed Sherlock gently down to sit on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to cup Sherlock's face in his hands. His thumbs stroked across Sherlock's amazing cheekbones lovingly, worshipping Sherlock's face with soft caresses as his eyes slowly drank in the familiar features. He could remember the hundreds of times in the last year that he had done this same thing, taking in Sherlock's beauty as he held the other man's face in his hands... and wasn't that an amazing thing to be able to do: dip into his own memories as if they'd always been there? 

John slid his hands down the sides of Sherlock's neck slowly, stroking the flushed skin as he made his way down to the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. He got the first two undone before he leaned forward to press his mouth to the side of Sherlock's neck, kissing and nibbling the skin lightly as he continued down the row of buttons, celebrating the freeing of each one with a sharper nip to Sherlock's skin. 

For his part, Sherlock remained absolutely motionless, the speed of his breathing the only sign of how much he was enjoying what John was doing. When John reached the shirt button at the top of Sherlock's trousers, the sides of his pinkies brushed against Sherlock's straining erection and John smiled faintly. 

"Lay back for me?" John asked, his words a murmur against the shell of Sherlock's ear. 

Sherlock's breath hitched and then shuddered out softly, and John swallowed hard at how tightly strung his Mate was at the moment. Was Sherlock really that desperate for sex? True, they hadn't been able to do anything with each other in the three and a half weeks since they'd tried to sneak into Appledore to steals documents from Magnussen, but in the past, there had been _months_ when they did nothing sexual together, even after they'd been Mated. Sherlock frequently became so absorbed in his Work and that he ignored the needs of his body, and that included sexual release. 

Sherlock lowered himself back onto the bed slowly, being cautious with his still-healing wound. John sat next to him, drawing his fingertips slowly up and down the line of Sherlock's bare torso framed by the unbuttoned shirt. "You seem eager," John said softly. "I know it's been awhile, but you've never seemed bothered before by going without." 

"I am... finding myself keen to celebrate the return of your memories," Sherlock admitted, his voice shaking slightly. "I had not realized how much it was affecting me until they came back this morning. It has been hard for me to keep my hands off of you today, despite my continued physical limitations from the bullet wound." 

"I don't want you to keep your hands off of me," John admitted, and Sherlock inhaled sharply, his mouth dropping open slightly as he stared up at his Mate. Then, he was reaching towards John and John leaned down to meet him, their kisses hungry and almost frantic. John reached down to pull Sherlock's shirt from his trousers with one hand, his other hand braced on the bed as he kissed Sherlock hungrily, his tongue plunging into the other man's mouth to tease against Sherlock's. 

John broke away from the kiss reluctantly, breathing hard as he freed the last two buttons on Sherlock's shirt before moving to his trousers. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice was hesitant and John froze with his hand on Sherlock's zip. 

"Yeah?" John asked, sitting back slowly. 

"I need your help with my shirt," Sherlock said, his voice slightly embarrassed. John cursed himself mentally; he'd been helping Sherlock get dressed and undressed since Sherlock had been released from the hospital; his range of motion was limited by the pain of his injury and he had grudgingly allowed John to step in and help him. Now, though, he didn't seem at all unwilling to accept John's help, a faint smile lifting the corners of his mouth as he stared over at John. 

"Of course," John said. Together, they removed the shirt and John paused to enjoy the expanse of bare skin now on view. He placed his palms against Sherlock's chest, his thumbs flicking over his nipples until Sherlock was arching his body, his head thrown back and his jaw tight. God, he was beautiful. 

John slid his hands down the planes of Sherlock's chest and stomach, enjoying the faint tickle of hair against his calloused palms as he made his way back down to Sherlock's zip. Sherlock leaned back onto his elbows carefully, watching John's every move as the other man maneuvered his zip over the bulging erection beneath it and then caught hold of the top of the trousers, pulling them down and off. 

John rose from the bed to remove his jumper and the button-up beneath it, moving with quick precision; this was no time for a slow strip-show, not with his eager Mate aching for him. John slid both his trousers and pants down in the same move, standing naked and hard next to the bed as he surveyed Sherlock. 

"How should we do this?" John asked, trying to pull his eyes away from Sherlock's prick, still covered by the thin black cotton of his pants. 

"I think it would be best if I were to brace my forearms on the bed with you behind me," Sherlock offered. He laid back on the bed, reaching down to hook his thumbs into the tops of his pants. "But first, I need to take these off." 

Sherlock's eyes were locked on John, watching as he slowly slid his pants down. John had bared himself efficiently, wanting to move things along, but Sherlock took his time, inching his black cotton pants down with torturous slowness, revealing his prick millimetre by millimetre. By the time he was finally sliding the pants down his thighs, John felt hot and unsteady, his heart pounding hard and fast against the walls of his chest. 

"God," he said as Sherlock slowly rolled to his side, his black pants still around one foot. A faint smirk twitched at Sherlock's mouth and he gave a little kick, his pants landing at John's feet as he rolled onto his hands and knees to crawl across the bed, his arse pointed back at his Mate. "Jesus," John said, the word breathy. He stepped over to the nightstand to get out the bottle of lube before crawling onto the bed after Sherlock. 

"I've uh... I've never actually done this before," Sherlock admitted. "I've never even researched it. As an Alpha, I never thought I would need to know anything about anal sex." 

"Well, I've done it a few times in the past," John said. "Just a few, so I'm hardly an expert... but I think we'll manage. As long as you still want to?" 

"Oh, I definitely do," Sherlock said. "I have found you the exception to many things in which I'd never expected to have an interest." 

John leaned out to press a kiss to Sherlock's scarred lower back, one hand reaching around the other man's torso to give Sherlock's cock a few slow strokes. "I love being the exception to your rules." 

Sherlock's low groan made John shudder, his own cock throbbing. He needed to get this underway or he'd orgasm long before he even got close to fucking Sherlock. 

John popped open the lube, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers and rubbing it around, carefully coating the digits. He added another squeeze, cupping his index and ring fingers to hold the lube in place as he guided it over to Sherlock's tight hole, rubbing and pressing as he worked one lubed finger into Sherlock's body. He paused as soon as the tip of his finger was inside, feeling the clench of Sherlock's muscles around his fingertip. 

"Okay?" John asked, looking down the scarred expanse of Sherlock's back. He couldn't see Sherlock's face; his arms were crossed on the bed, his forehead pressed against one forearm, and the inability to judge Sherlock's expression made John hesitate. 

Seeming to understand what John wanted, Sherlock rolled his head to one side, resting his cheek on his forearm as he looked back at John, twisting his shoulders slightly to let him see his Mate's face. "Yes. Don't stop." 

John slid his finger in by slow degrees, the tight heat making him bite down on his lips to keep from moaning out loud. Sherlock had no such compunction, his mouth falling open in a long, low groan as John's finger worked its way into him. When John had sheathed his finger as far as he could, he paused to let the muscles clench and release around it, giving Sherlock a chance to adjust. 

"More," Sherlock said, his voice breathy. His eyes were shut and even in the dimness of the bedroom, John could see the hot flush suffusing his face. 

John pulled his finger out, squeezing another dollop of lube onto it before easing both his index and ring fingers inside Sherlock's body. Sherlock was panting quickly at the stretch, but he wasn't pulling away. John moved with excruciating slowness, not wanting to hurt Sherlock. Once both fingers were fully sheathed inside Sherlock, he wiggled them slightly, testing Sherlock's reception. 

"Ah!" Sherlock gasped, body thrusting abruptly back against John's fingers. 

"Easy," John said, his voice soft as he reached up his free hand to brace it against Sherlock's arse. "We're going slowly." 

John wiggled his fingers again, keeping his hand braced on Sherlock's arse, but Sherlock stayed still the second time, instead groaning heavily as he half-opened his eyes, gazing back at John with bare desire. John began to slowly withdraw his fingers, moving just an inch before slowly moving them back in. Sherlock let out a long, shuddering breath as John worked him, slowly picking up speed. He began adding in a scissoring motion of his fingers on every other thrust, stretching Sherlock gently for what was to come. While John's cock was nowhere near the size of Sherlock's, he definitely did _not_ have the curse that some Omegas had: a vestigial penis, barely enough to feel. 

John's hand on Sherlock's arse slid around to his hip, gripping it as John slid his fingers out of Sherlock slowly, scissoring and wiggling them against the tight muscles as he went. Once his fingers were free, he released Sherlock's hip to squeeze another generous amount of lube over the first three fingers of his left hand. He folded them together and began inserting them slowly, replacing his right hand on Sherlock's and stroking soothingly. 

"Yes. Please." Sherlock's whisper was pulsing with need and John couldn't stop his answering moan. He was painfully hard. 

"Still okay?" John asked, working his three fingers slowly deeper. 

"Yes," Sherlock said, the word barely audible. "Yes. Yes." 

John wiggled his fingers, his breath exploding out of him at the shameless, desperate noise Sherlock made in response, his head arching back as John's fingers slid deeper, stretching him open. 

"I want..." Sherlock broke off, his head falling forward to press his face into his forearms again. "I need you, John." 

John pulled his fingers out slowly, wiping them against the sheets with a mental note to change them before bed that night. He squeezed a palmful of lube out, coating his cock well and shuddering at how sensitive he was, before he wiped his hand on the sheets again. And then he was gripping Sherlock's hips tight, lining his cock up. 

"You sure?" he asked, hesitating with the head of his cock just barely touching Sherlock's arse. 

"Do it!" Sherlock said, looking back, his expression fierce. John smiled; that was the demanding man he was familiar with. 

He pressed his hips forward, the head of his cock pushing against the tight ring of muscles for several seconds before Sherlock suddenly relaxed and John slipped in. 

Sherlock swore, hands gripping the sheet beneath him as his entire body tensed. John began stroking Sherlock's hips in small, soothing circles. 

"Relax," he said, keeping his tone gentle. "Just relax. I'm going to go slowly." 

Sherlock panted for a second before he let his back bow down again, relaxing to the invasion of John's cock. John twitched his hips forward just slightly, gaining another bare millimetre. He paused there, hands still stroking soothingly at Sherlock's hips. After a moment, he pulled back just the smallest bit before gently pushing forward again. 

John kept going like that for a long time, tiny incremental gains as he listened to the cadence of Sherlock's breathing. It took a long time for John to be fully seated inside Sherlock's body, and John could feel his cock pulsing with arousal in the tight heat. 

"That's it," he whispered. "I'm all the way in." 

"It's... intense," Sherlock said, his voice tight. 

"I'm going to move," John said. "It might feel uncomfortable, but that will pass. If it hurts, though, tell me." 

"Right," Sherlock said, twisting his head to rest his cheek on his forearm again. His curls were sticking damply to his forehead, his eyes cloudy with the new sensations. 

John pulled back slowly and then pushed back in, watching Sherlock's face. It tightened for a moment, his expression uncomfortable, but John kept the slow, easy rhythm and after a moment, Sherlock's expression began to relax. John knew he had reached the right point when Sherlock's mouth opened on a shuddering sigh, his eyes slowly shutting as he let himself sink into the sensation of being fucked by John. 

John gripped Sherlock's hips, slowly increasing his speed. He could already tell this wasn't going to last much longer; he could feel a heaviness building low in his belly. He slid one hand down Sherlock's hip, seeking the other man's cock. He found it only half-hard, almost certainly due to the initial discomfort of having John moving within him, and John began to stroke it in time with his thrusts. Sherlock's breathing picked up, his body beginning to writhe against John's as his cock hardened in John's fist. 

"That's it," John murmured, his voice tight as he worked toward his orgasm. "That's right." 

John was picking up speed in his thrusts now, Sherlock's body fully relaxing to the onslaught and the lube making everything slide deliciously. Sherlock twisted his upper body slightly, trying to see John better, and made a sharp noise as his eyes went wide. 

"Bad?" John asked, freezing. 

"No, good. _Really_ good," Sherlock said. "Don't stop." 

"I might be brushing against your prostate," John said, beginning to thrust again with relief; he was almost painfully close to orgasm. Sherlock couldn't respond to John's words, too busy making tiny moans with each thrust, the volume growing incrementally each time he voiced one. 

John gripped Sherlock's cock, stroking quickly, pumping his own cock into Sherlock faster and faster. And then his hips stuttered as his orgasm swept over him, his hand freezing around Sherlock's cock as pleasure overwhelmed him. He whispered Sherlock's name once, leaning forward over Sherlock's back as the waves of bliss washed over and through him. Once John came back to himself, he began stroking Sherlock again, his grip tight. He began to thrust gently, still hard enough to make Sherlock groan at the resumption of movement. And then Sherlock was coming, John's name on his lips as he shuddered, pressing his arse back against John. 

John waited until Sherlock sighed heavily and contentedly before slowly pulling out of Sherlock's body. He collapsed next to his Mate as Sherlock fell heavily onto the bed, avoiding the sticky spot his orgasm had left on the sheets, and John pressed a kiss against Sherlock's waist before dragging himself up the couple of feet to the pillows. 

He threw an arm across Sherlock's back, fingers stroking lightly up and down Sherlock's biceps. They lay in silence, their panting breaths slowing gradually. Finally, John asked, "Okay?" 

"Sore," Sherlock admitted, his voice slightly muffled due to his face still being half-buried in his pillow, "but not unpleasantly so." 

John laughed softly, kicking the blanket up over them; they were both sweaty from exertion and he was beginning to get chilly now that they were just laying around. 

"Thankfully, I will be able to blame my difficulty walking this evening on residual stiffness from being shot," Sherlock said, finally turning his face out of his pillow to look over at John. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his face was completely relaxed. 

"Don't want to think about that right now, all the stuff that's coming tonight," John said, giving his own head a tiny shake. "I just want to be here with you." 

"I'm amenable to that," Sherlock admitted, twisting his body around to twine his legs with John's. He shuffled close enough to rest his forehead against John's and closed his eyes, his body utterly limp. John smirked, tipping his head enough to rub his nose against Sherlock's briefly, and then he relaxed and shut his eyes, letting himself doze, tangled with his Mate. 


	15. Chapter 15

John stood on the landing outside of his old bedroom, watching as Sherlock put the final touches on the waxwork model of John that would hopefully be taking Moran's bullet in the next few hours. It was a convincing replica, especially in the dim light the single bedside lamp provided.

"You see, having the light behind the dummy means that Moran will be seeing it slightly in silhouette," Sherlock explained, settling a book onto the tea towel-stuffed trousers that made up the dummy's legs. "It will be nearly impossible for him to tell it's not actually you. Now for the final touch..." 

John crossed his arms, leaning against the doorjamb as Sherlock fumbled around the dummy's right arm for a moment. With a soft whir, the arm moved from right to left and then back to the right before stopping. It looked, for all the world, like the dummy had just flipped a page of the book resting on its 'legs.' 

"And there you have it," Sherlock said, sounding pleased. "It will repeat that motion every couple of minutes. Moran should think it is you and take his shot. Lestrade and I will be waiting to apprehend him." Sherlock walked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him. "Speaking of which, it's time for me to leave and for you to settle on the landing to wait." 

"Wonderful," John said dryly, but he followed Sherlock down the stairs and onto the landing without complaint. 

Sherlock stepped into the sitting room briefly to retrieve his coat and scarf, joining John back on the landing to put them on. 

"I have every reason to believe that this will go off without a hitch, but if you should hear someone knocking at the front door, please assume that it is someone who desires your death and _don't_ answer it." 

John's eyebrows drew down at the words. "But what about Mrs. Hudson? What if she gets the door?" 

"I've already sent her out for the evening," Sherlock replied, giving a little smirk as he pulled his black leather gloves on. "I took the liberty to make dinner reservations for both her and Mrs. Turner from next door. I wouldn't expect Mrs. Hudson back in her flat until after I've returned from the successful arrest of Moran." 

"You've thought of everything," John said, leaning against the wall next to the door that led into the kitchen of 221B. 

"Hopefully," Sherlock replied. He leaned down toward John, and John responded by raising his own face. The kiss was slow and thorough; John stepped away from the wall to press against Sherlock as he reached up to cup the back of the taller man's head in his palm and Sherlock responded by sliding both arms around John's waist, tugging their bodies together. Just because Moran wouldn't actually be shooting him didn't mean they weren't both feeling increased tension that evening and needing a little comfort from their Mated. 

When Sherlock finally broke the kiss, he did not pull very far away, his nose brushing against John's. He was breathing quickly and there was a very faint flush on his cheeks. 

"Sorry. That got a little more involved than I'd planned," Sherlock admitted, forehead pressing against John's. 

"Understandable," John said, his voice a little unsteady. "Moran will be shooting my wax replica soon." 

"I can't help feeling that you're in danger," Sherlock admitted, raising one gloved hand to cup John's face for the briefest moment. 

"Yeah, well, I'm not. You, on the other hand, will be right there with Moran. Don't take any stupid risks, okay?" 

"I'll come back to you," Sherlock said, a faint smile brushing across his mouth as he stepped back from John, and then he was moving swiftly down the stairs and out the front door. John sighed, leaning back against the wall again. After a pause, he slid down the wall, settling down on the floor of the landing to wait. 

John had experience with waiting. There were huge sections of his deployment in Afghanistan where he felt like it was a big game of 'hurry up and wait.' But he'd had other people there to help pass the time. Sitting alone on the landing, listening to the oppressive silence of 221B and the fainter sounds of traffic passing on Baker Street, John felt like he was going to go mad. He couldn't stop thinking of Sherlock, crouched at the base of a building where Moran waited with a sniper rifle. What if Moran became aware of Sherlock? 

John tried to stop the destructive pattern of his thoughts, but he couldn't. Finally, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket, tapping a message to Sherlock. 

_So far, eighteen cars have driven by. Wonder if that is an avg amt or more than normal? -JW_

He set the phone down with a sigh, leaning his head back against the wall. After only a few seconds, though, the phone buzzed with an incoming text. 

_Eighteen cars in the last 30min is normal. -SH_

John gave a soft laugh as he read the message. 

_Not sure if I should be impressed or distressed that you count passing cars regularly. -JW_

John didn't put the phone down after pressing Send; Sherlock did not seem any more engrossed by his stakeout than John was with his hiding out. 

_I pay attention to the important things. -SH_

John couldn't stop his snort of laughter. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the silence of the flat. John got quiet quickly, glancing around guiltily almost as if he'd disturbed the peace of a library. He was lifting his mobile to reply to Sherlock's message when he heard a soft thump from beyond the closed door of the flat. Had Moran taken the shot and the noise was the dummy collapsing? But that sound should have come from the upstairs bedroom, not from the flat. 

John rose slowly, eyes locked on the closed door that led to the sitting room. He hesitated, jiggling his mobile in his hand for a moment before quickly sending a message and shoving the mobile into his trouser pocket. 

_Noise from the flat. Probably nothing, but I'm going to check it. I'll stay away from the windows. -JW_

He opened the door cautiously, cursing himself for not bringing his handgun with him out onto the landing. It was in the nightstand drawer in the bedroom he and Sherlock shared and completely out of reach to him. 

With the door pushed fully open, John quickly peeked his head in and scanned the room. There was nothing out of place that he could see, and he stepped in cautiously. The sitting room door was directly across the room from one of the two sitting room windows and he moved quickly, hunching down to make himself a smaller target just in case Moran happened to be aiming through one of the sitting room windows. 

John peeked his head into the kitchen before sliding around the doorframe and pressing against the wall to the left-hand side of the doorway. He was no longer in a direct line of sight to any of the windows and he breathed a sigh of relief before straightening and glancing around the kitchen. 

Nothing looked out of place in the kitchen, either. Everything was where it had been the last time he'd walked through. 

John heard another thump followed by a soft rustle and he turned to stare down the hallway; the bedroom door was open, and he was certain that Sherlock had pulled it shut when they had finally exited the room a few hours earlier. The noises had sounded as if they were coming from that room. 

He realized his mobile was buzzing against his thigh and had been doing for the last few minutes in quick bursts. He pulled it out and read through the string of messages. 

_Don't. -SH_

_Stay on the landing. Do NOT move. -SH_

_John, respond. -SH_

_I'm coming back if you don't respond. -SH_

_I'm coming back. -SH_

John shoved the mobile back into his pocket; there was no need to respond to the messages. Sherlock was already on his way, and if there _was_ someone in the flat, they were between John and his gun. He might soon need Sherlock's help. 

That left the question of whether he should proceed down the hallway towards whomever was making noises or stay in the kitchen and wait for Sherlock. John hesitated for a moment, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he debated. Finally, though, his expression changed from conflicted to resolute and he bent low, moving quickly and silently past the kitchen table loaded down with Sherlock's experiments and into the short hall that led to the bathroom and bedroom. 

There was another thump from the bedroom and John moved close to the left-hand side of the hallway, pressing against the wall. His heart was hammering in his chest but he felt oddly calm, the same sort of disconnected peace that swept over him when he was going into combat situations. 

John heard a soft clatter from the open bedroom doorway and he shifted into a crouch as he prepared to shuffle past the closed bathroom door and into the bedroom. If it was Moran in the bedroom, he almost certainly had a gun, and John would be considerably safer if he entered the room in a crouch since most people had a tendency to aim up high where they expected a person to be when they were surprised while holding a gun. 

That was when the bathroom door next to him was abruptly pulled open and John found himself falling towards the bathroom, a strong arm twining around his neck even as he tumbled. 

John's arms came up, and he grabbed the forearm trying to press into his windpipe and pulled it down into his collarbone. Although he had been falling towards the floor only seconds before, the arm around him stopped his downward momentum and John planted his feet firmly before using the strong muscles in his thighs to shove himself abruptly up and back, bracing himself as the top of his head collided with the face of his attacker. 

The arm around his chest slackened and John took advantage of his attacker's disorientation to kick one foot back, feeling it connect satisfyingly hard with a shin. 

"Fuck!" his attacked shouted, and John threw himself forward against the arm wrapped over his collarbone, tearing himself free. He spun as soon as he crossed the threshold into the hallway, preparing himself to attack again, but he had only the briefest moment to recognize that it was, indeed, Moran in the bathroom before the other man was tackling him, spearing into his stomach and driving him against the opposite wall of the hallway. John's breath shot out of him in an agonized whoosh and the back of his head smacked into the wall painfully hard, making him dizzy for a moment. Unfortunately, Moran was not disoriented by the collision and a fist connected with John's jaw, rattling him even more. 

John was sliding down the striped wallpaper behind him, unable to get his bearings as his scrambled brain tried to get itself back online. He was trying to get his legs and arms to respond, but the signal was too jumbled by the two recent blows to his head and he ended up sitting, splay-legged, with his back against the wall as Moran slowly rose to his feet in front of him. 

"Oh, you've been a trial to track down," Moran said, raising one hand to brush carefully at one nostril. He examined the knuckles of the hand, looking pleased at the lack of blood. "Nice dummy upstairs. It almost convinced me, but I had always intended to do this up close and personal-like. I was never going to shoot you from a distance." 

John groaned softly, still trying to get his legs to respond so he could rise. Moran reached inside his coat and pulled a handgun free of a chest rig, clicking off the safety as he crouched just in front of John. 

"Sherlock caused Jim to blow his own brains out, did you know? I thought it was only fitting that he find _you_ the same way." Moran raised the gun, moving to press it against John's temple, and John swung his arm up, smashing it into the underside of Moran's arm. The gun went off, the sound almost deafening in the confines of the hallway, but the bullet went into the ceiling rather than John's head. John lunged forward, headbutting Moran with his forehead this time. A sharp bolt of pain lanced through his head, but there was no accompanying dizzines and John pressed his temporary advantage as Moran reeled back and fell halfway into the bathroom. He grabbed hold of Moran's wrist on the hand holding the gun and began to beat Moran's arm against the doorjamb. After several solid blows, the gun skittered down the hallway, coming to a stop just inside the bedroom doorway. 

Moran snarled as he realized he'd lost his weapon, bringing his legs up and planting his feet in John's chest before the other man had a chance to react. Moran shoved hard and John found himself propelled into the hallway wall again. He managed not to smash his head that time, though, and threw himself after Moran as the assassin scrambled down the hallway towards the fallen gun. 

John tackled Moran from behind, arms wrapping around the other man's chest as Moran toppled forward. Moran's chin smashed against the hall tile and he made a squealing noise of pain. John grabbed hold of Moran's shoulders and jerked the other man away from the bedroom and back down the hall. Even as he slid across the tile floor, though, Moran was twisting out of John's grasp, spinning from his stomach to his back underneath John. 

John slammed his fist down into Moran's face as soon as Moran had completed his roll. Moran shouted but John punched him again, his fist aching from the blow. He added a third punch with his other fist for good measure, Moran's head rolling with it on a suddenly boneless neck, the punches having knocked him senseless for the moment. 

John heard the door to the street slamming open and Sherlock's voice shouting his name as he ran up the stairs to their flat. 

"Here!" John yelled back, sitting on Moran's chest and panting as he stared down at the other man. Moran's face was a mess of blood and bruises and his eyes were shut, but John couldn't guarantee the assassin was actually out cold; he heaved himself off Moran with difficulty, taking a few stumbling steps down the hall and scooping the gun off the floor. He heard a soft sliding sound behind him and spun, bringing the gun to bear. 

Moran had been rising from the floor, his face twisted in a grimace. When he saw his own gun pointed at him, though, he froze, leaning heavily into one hand braced against the hallway wall. He and John stared at each other, both panting, as Sherlock swept through the kitchen towards them. Sherlock lifted his heavy microscope off the table as he passed, holding it in one hand, his expression absolutely murderous. Moran heard Sherlock's tread behind him and began to turn as Sherlock raised the microscope high and brought it crashing down against Moran's head. 

Moran toppled to the floor of the hallway heavily, his head rebounding off the tile floor. Sherlock stared down at him for a long moment before glancing at the microscope in his hand. The anger on his face melted into an expression of annoyance as he said, "I hope I won't have to replace this." 

"Yeah, well, you probably should've chosen a different bludgeon," John said, lowering the gun and clicking the safety back on. 

Sherlock leaned down to set the microscope on the floor before stepping around Moran's prone form to move over to John, cupping the shorter man's face in his gloved hands. His expression was fierce as his eyes raked across John's face and body. 

"How badly are you hurt?" 

"Not too badly. Bruises, I think." John hesitated, taking stock. "Back of my head hurts." He reached back to touch the sore spot and brought his hand around, grimacing at the faint smear of blood on his fingers. 

Sherlock saw it, too, and his nostrils flared as he started to turn away from John and back towards the unconscious Moran, but John caught hold of Sherlock's arm, tugging gently. "Don't. He's out for now. Call Lestrade and get him here so we can get me to hospital and get my head checked." 

Sherlock hesitated, his eyes locked on Moran. John could feel how tight Sherlock's biceps was under his hand, even through the thick wool of Sherlock's Belstaff. Finally, though, Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket and turned away from Moran, dialing. 

John leaned back against the wall and let himself slide back to the floor with a sigh. He would happily retire to his own armchair once the police took possession of Moran. Until then, he was going to keep the gun in his hands and his eyes locked on the assassin. 

After a moment, Sherlock shoved his mobile back into his pocket and sat down next to John, his Belstaff spreading around him on the hallway floor. John sighed softly, leaning his head over onto Sherlock's shoulder, and together they waited for Lestrade to arrive. 


	16. Chapter 16

"That was tedious," Sherlock said, sweeping out of the front door of the hospital ahead of John.

"It was necessary," John reminded him, moving at a much more sedate pace, all the various bruises and aches from his fight with Moran causing him to move much more cautiously than he normally would have. 

They had spent the last two hours waiting for a doctor to look at the wound on the back of John's head where it had collided with the hallway wall twice during his fight with Moran. The doctor had only needed a few moments of careful examination to declare that it did not need stitches and John would be fine with a little rest. 

"'Necessary' does not mean 'interesting,'" Sherlock reminded him, hailing one of the passing cabs. John couldn't argue the point, so he settled for shoving his hands in his pockets as the cab slowly made its way to the kerb where they stood. 

They had spent the majority of the night at New Scotland Yard with Lestrade, waiting for Moran to be booked and for Lestrade to be free to take John's statement. Lestrade seemed confident that, with the information Mycroft had provided hours earlier plus John's account of the attack, they would easily be able to hold Moran until the trial and would more than likely be able to get a conviction. 

Once they were settled into the backseat of the cab and heading back towards 221B Baker Street, John scooted close to Sherlock, not stopping until his side was pressed in a solid line to Sherlock's. 

Sherlock glanced over at him, his expression surprised and questioning as he met John's eyes. 

"It's been a long night," John said in explanation. "It's nearly morning now. I'm exhausted... and there's no part of me that isn't aching. I've had a huge blast of cortisol, adrenaline, and norepinephrine, and frankly I feel like I kind of desperately need of my Alpha's touch." 

"Ah," Sherlock said, understanding smoothing out his expression. He pulled off the glove on the hand nearest John, catching John's hand in his own to thread their fingers together. The warmth of Sherlock's skin was like a balm to John's aching hand, even as Sherlock's fingers brushed against the abrasions on John's knuckles, reminders of the multiple punches he had landed on Moran's face hours earlier. 

John relaxed slightly, leaning his head onto Sherlock's shoulder as they sat in comfortable silence for the rest of the cab ride. 

Sherlock paid the cabbie before exiting the cab, surprising John; usually he was responsible for that sort of thing. Sherlock was usually so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he forgot to attend to the basic necessities of everyday life. John was even more surprised when Sherlock opened the front door of the flat and held it for John, waiting until the shorter man had walked inside before entering himself. 

John headed up the stairs, so tired that he was falling back into his most basic animal desire to be in a 'safe place,' and the flat fit that description - despite Moran's invasion several hours before. John had hung up his jacket and was heading towards his armchair to collapse when Sherlock stepped into the flat, shutting the front door behind him. 

"Wait," Sherlock said, and John didn't miss the note of command in his voice. He turned towards the taller man, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. Sherlock slid out of his Belstaff and unwound his scarf, tossing both negligently onto the coat rack before walking over to John, reaching down to grab hold of the hem of John's jumper. "Okay?" 

"Sherlock," John said, his voice weary, lifting a hand to rub it across his forehead in an effort to soothe the tight muscles there, "I've had a hell of a night and I'm not really in the mood -" 

"Not sex," Sherlock clarified. "I just want to give you the skin-to-skin contact you're craving. You were right in the cab: your body has had several shocks tonight and you need some comforting. As a Mated Omega, you will respond best to comfort from your Alpha." 

"Oh," John said, surprised, his hand dropping from his forehead as he stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. "Then... yeah, okay. That would be good." 

Sherlock pulled the jumper up and off, tossing it onto the coffee table. His fingers worked their way down the row of buttons on John's button-up before moving to undo the buttons on his own shirt. John slid his shirt off his arms, dropping it onto the floor next to his armchair, as Sherlock finished his last couple of buttons. Sherlock was pulling John close as soon as he had freed his last button, the warmth of his bare chest pressing against John's in a soothing line. 

John released a long sigh as Sherlock's arms came around him, holding him gently. John nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's chest, filling his nose with the comforting scent of Sherlock's skin and sweat, feeling his level of tension dropping with each inhalation. Sherlock's hands were making slow, relaxing circles on John's bare back, pressing gently whenever they came across a knotted muscle. 

Sherlock's shirt was still on, but John slid his hands underneath the back of it, seeking the long lines of muscle on Sherlock's back, sliding his hands up and down the scarred skin as he felt the last of his lingering tension from the encounter with Moran melting away. 

"This is really good," John murmured, aware that his voice was slightly slurred as if he'd had several strong drinks. 

"Mmm," Sherlock rumbled in agreement, leaning his head down to nuzzle his nose into John's short wheat-and-salt hair, breathing deeply of his Mate's scent. "Should we try to get some rest before the sun comes up?" 

"Nothing planned for tomorrow, right?" 

"Christmas Eve? I believe we had a small gathering planned -" 

"Oh, hell, that's right," John muttered, tensing up as he remembered. 

"Don't do that," Sherlock said, fingers digging gently but persistently into the tightening muscles of John's back and shoulders. "It's not until tomorrow evening, and it's just Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. No one will be trying to shoot you." 

"I know," John said, trying to relax. "I know. I just... can we not think about tomorrow?" 

"Of course," Sherlock acquiesced. "It will not be a late evening, anyway. We'll have to leave early on Saturday to drive to my parents' for Christmas dinner." 

"Oh," John groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut. "Christmas. _Magnussen_." 

"Yes," Sherlock said. "But you don't need to worry about that; I have it well in hand." 

"Like you had the whole Moran situation well in hand?" John asked, and realized immediately that he was picking at Sherlock. He spoke quickly to stop the inevitable fight that his words would cause. "No, look, let's... let's don't talk about this, please. I'm sorry I said anything. Can we just... just focus on right now?" 

There was a pause as Sherlock stared down at John, his face tight as he warred with his own injured pride and the desire to snipe back at his Mate. Finally, though, he nodded slowly. "Come on," Sherlock said, bumping John lightly with his hips, nudging the other man in the direction of the bedroom. "You need sleep." 

Sherlock kept one arm around John's waist, holding John tight to his side as they made their way through the sitting room, past the kitchen table and Sherlock's experiments, down the hallway, and into their bedroom. After the police had come but before they'd left for hospital, John had picked up the small handful of shoes and books that Moran had tossed around the room - obviously the thumps that had lured John into the flat in the first place - and the bedroom looked the same as it always did. Still, John felt a small shudder race through him as he crossed the threshold, his mind unable to let go of the idea that Moran had been in there. 

Sherlock noticed, of course; his hand slid from John's waist to his lower back, soothing with a repetitive slow back and forth slide. He gave John a very gentle push towards the bed and John moved to it slowly, undoing his trousers as he walked. He kicked both his trousers and shoes off in one movement, using his toes to peel his socks off as he climbed into the bed, enjoying the fresh smell of the clean sheets he'd put on earlier in the day. 

After taking a moment to get undressed, Sherlock joined him and John found that the scent of Sherlock's skin was even better than the clean sheets. He turned toward Sherlock, rubbing the tip of his nose against the other man's collarbone. Sherlock responded by throwing one long leg over John's hip and reaching out to massage the tight muscles of John's neck, pausing every now and again to stroke his fingertips gently over the bond bite he'd left in his Mate's skin. 

John felt everything else drifting away as he closed his eyes and lost himself in the warmth and comfort of Sherlock's skin, the brush of Sherlock's fingers, and the sound of Sherlock's breathing. Nothing else mattered except Sherlock. 

"I love you, you know," John murmured, and he felt Sherlock's lips press softly to his forehead. 

"I had noticed that, yes," Sherlock admitted, leaving his lips against John's skin as he spoke. The warm puff of Sherlock's breath into his hairline made John shiver with a pleasant little tickling sensation. 

"Just thought it needed saying," John said, punctuating the statement with a soft kiss to Sherlock's collarbone. 

"My beautiful John," Sherlock murmured, his palm cupping the bond bite gently. John knew what Sherlock was actually saying, and he smiled. 

"You can sleep now, John. Nothing will come for you. I won't let anything hurt you." Sherlock's palm skimmed gently down his shoulder blade, pausing to caress the old scar of John's gunshot wound from Afghanistan, and circled round to his waist, settling in the dip between John's ribs and hip. "I'll keep watch." 

John let his mind drift, his thoughts scattering. There were hours to go before he had to do anything besides breathe in the scent of Sherlock's skin and listen to the susurration of Sherlock's breath; he was safe, he was warm, and Sherlock was keeping watch. John drifted into heavy, dreamless sleep and Sherlock watched over him until, finally, as the sun peeked over the horizon, Sherlock succumbed to his own exhaustion and slept, too. 


	17. Chapter 17

John stepped out of the way as Mrs. Holmes bustled past, a cutting board of diced celery in her hands, tucking his hands behind his back as he flashed a quick, uncomfortable smile. He had never been terribly comfortable in the kitchen; he simply didn't really have much of a talent for cooking beyond toast or boiled eggs. Just another item to put on the list he'd been keeping for most of his life: "Why John Watson Is a Poor Representation of an Omega."

"Um... need any help with... anything?" John asked, glancing around the kitchen at the loaded countertops and the pots bubbling on the stove. 

"Oh, John, thank you for offering, but I hate having anyone invading my kitchen when I'm working," Mrs. Holmes said, glancing over to give him a quick smile to take the sting out of her words. 

"You're a guest," Sherlock pointed out in a low murmur from his seat near the far end of the table, leaning back comfortably in his armchair as he browsed through the newspaper. "You shouldn't be offering to do anything." 

"Yeah, I like being useful," John said, moving over to stand just behind Sherlock's armchair, resting his palms on Sherlock's shoulders lightly. 

"Don't worry about that now, John," Mrs. Holmes advised as she gave one of the pots on the stove a quick stir, tapping the spoon on the edge of the pot before setting it down on the edge of the stovetop. "You and Sherlock have had a long drive and here you both are, recovering from serious attacks. I can manage to get supper on the table by 5pm without you having to lift a finger." 

At the other end of the table, Mycroft lifted his head from his hands where he'd had it buried for the last five minutes, glancing at the watch on his wrist before letting out a hollow moan. "Oh, dear God, it's only two o'clock. It's been Christmas day for at least a _week_ now. How can it only be two o'clock? I'm in _agony_." 

John snorted a soft laugh; in the early days of their acquaintanceship, Sherlock had invited John to imagine years of Christmas dinners with the Holmes boys. John was finding it absolutely delightful that his imaginings had been so close to reality: Sherlock was staying as silent as possible while Mycroft bemoaned the whole experience frequently, acting as if he were being subjected to the most unbearable of tortures by being expected to sit with his family and make small talk. 

"Mikey, is this _your_ laptop?" Mrs. Holmes asked, pointing at a closed laptop resting near Mycroft's elbow. There was a heavy wooden cutting board covered in whole potatoes and their peelings balanced on top of it. 

"Upon which depends the security of the free world, yes, and you've got potatoes on it," Mycroft said with a sarcastic twist to the words and a snarky smile up at his mother. 

"Well, you shouldn't leave it lying around if it's so important," Mrs. Holmes pointed out, and Mycroft threw his hands up, gesturing around the kitchen with frustration. 

"Why are we doing this? We _never_ do this!" Mycroft said, and John raised his eyebrows slightly at the outburst. Sherlock looked up from his newspaper and John rubbed his palms over Sherlock's shoulders soothingly. 

"We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital and we are _all_ very happy," Mrs. Holmes scolded, leaning over the table to meet Mycroft's eyes, her expression stern. 

Mycroft's face pulled into a completely unbelievable smile as he asked, "Am _I_ happy, too? I haven't checked." 

Mrs. Holmes scoffed slightly, lifting a basket of Christmas crackers in shiny wrapping from the table and turning away from him. "Behave, Mike." 

"'Mycroft' is the name you gave me, if you could struggle all the way to the end," Mycroft sniped, obviously happy to take out his boredom and frustration on anyone who would respond to him. 

"I love when we have these little family moments," Sherlock murmured and John ducked his head, trying to hide his smile. 

"I can see how they would sustain you, considering how _domestic_ you've become," Mycroft said, turning towards his younger brother with an eye for a new sparring partner. 

"Oh, stop it, you," Mrs. Holmes said, giving Mycroft a glare. "Someone has put a bullet in my boy, and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous." 

John cleared his throat, stepping around Sherlock's chair to take the basket of crackers from Mrs. Holmes. "Here, let me get those. Where were you wanting these to go?" 

"Oh, thank you, John, dear; just through to the sitting room, if you would," she said, gesturing through an open doorway. 

"Have you tried your punch," Sherlock asked, gesturing with one hand toward the small glass he had handed his mother before settling into his armchair several minutes before. "The ice will be melting and start to water it down soon." 

"Oh, yes, thank you, Sherlock," she said, lifting her glass to take a sip. "Oh, it's quite good. Thank you for making it." 

Sherlock turned his gaze to his older brother, raising his eyebrows pointedly. Mycroft sighed and lifted his own glass from the table and giving it a little jiggle in Sherlock's direction before taking a drink. 

Sherlock stood from his chair, looking satisfied. "That is the extent of my current Christmas spirit. I'm going to go check on John." 

"Take your father's punch to him, if you would, dear; he forgot to take it with him when he went to build up the fire in the sitting room," Mrs. Holmes said, holding a second glass out towards Sherlock as she raised her own for another sip. 

Sherlock took the glass and headed through the door to the sitting room, moving carefully around a luxuriously decorated fir tree that almost intruded into the doorway. John glanced up from where he'd settled himself on the couch, a guilty look passing over his face as he saw Sherlock looking for him. Sherlock gave John a faint smile to let him know that he understood John's desire to get away from his bickering family for a few moments and the guilty expression melted off John's face to be replaced by the warm smile that John only ever gave to Sherlock. 

Mr. Holmes was tossing the last log onto the sitting room fire and straightened up with a little groan. 

"Your punch," Sherlock said, stepping towards his father with the glass held out. 

"Ah, right." Mr. Holmes took the glass and drank, making an appreciative noise. "This is very good, Sherlock. Aren't you having any?" 

"Not thirsty at the moment. I was hoping I could talk to John for a moment...?" 

"Of course," Mr. Holmes said, sending a quick smile over at John on the couch. "I just wanted to say... your mother is so very happy you've finally settled down." 

Sherlock's brow creased and he shifted his weight from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable. 

"John's a wonderful man," Mr. Holmes continued, giving Sherlock little nod. "Your mother and I did worry somewhat in your youth what kind of man you'd grow into... it's very reassuring to see you settling down with someone like John." 

"Yes. Thank you," Sherlock said, the words clipped, clasping his hands behind his back. 

"I know she won't mention it to you directly," Mr. Holmes said, casting a conspiratorial glance towards John and lowering his voice slightly as he leaned towards his youngest son, "but she and I have both been wondering if you're going to be starting a family soon -" 

"All right, I think that's enough of a father-son chat for now," Sherlock said quickly, alarm sweeping across his features as John struggled to turn a laugh into a cough. "I wanted to speak to John, if you could please..." And he gestured towards the door back into the kitchen. 

Mr. Holmes chuckled, shaking his head as he raised his glass of punch for another sip and gave John a small wave, exiting the room. 

"I suppose I should've seen that coming," John said dryly and Sherlock shook his head. 

"A _family_ ," he said, moving away from the fireplace and around a rustic wooden coffee table to stand next to the couch. 

"Well, it's hardly surprising. It _is_ Christmas and your entire family is gathered..." 

"Mostly," Sherlock muttered, and then sat down next to John on the couch, shaking his sleeve back to look at his watch. 

"'Mostly?' What, do you have a secret brother or something that no one's ever mentioned to me?" John asked, smirking. Sherlock's eyes ticked to him and then away and John went still, the smile on his face turning disbelieving. "No. There's another..." He stopped, gesturing towards the kitchen where the rest of Sherlock's family were just barely audible, their voices a low murmur. 

"We don't see him often. He and Mycroft have been at odds since they were young, but they were exceptionally close in age; 'Irish twins,' I believe it's called." Sherlock shifted on his feet uncomfortably, his expression pained. "Sherrinford was never quite as obviously clever as Mycroft, although he had his own subtle genius. But as we grew older, it became obvious that Ford very much resented always being pushed behind his younger brother's spotlight. He left the family years ago on poor terms, although he does still check in on our parents occasionally. He does not come to any family gatherings where Mycroft will be present, though." 

"Your family... it's like you're from some sort of gothic romance novel. Does your father keep a second, mad wife locked in the attic?" John asked, disbelief coloring every word. 

Sherlock pursed his lips faintly. "I suppose my father was thinking of Ford and that was why he asked about the possibility of children. Despite the problems of raising the three of us, my parents enjoyed their roles as mother and father. I imagine that they would like to experience the nurturing roles again as grandparents." 

"Sherlock, we've never really... look, I don't even know if I ever _want_ kids; I've never even thought about it. I don't... do you... are we really going to talk about this _now_ , at Christmas dinner with your family?" 

"No. I was merely explaining why my father brought up the possibility of us starting a family." Sherlock lifted his wrist, checking his watch for the second time since entering the room. "Ah. Four more minutes." 

"Four more minutes until what?" John asked, confused. Had he missed the formulation of some plans earlier? All he knew about was supper in three hours. 

"I told you before that we would be dealing with Magnussen today," Sherlock said, and John went stiff as a rush of tension shivered through him. "What I did not clarify is that we would be _making_ a deal. In ten minutes, his personal helicopter will arrive to take us to Appledore -" 

"Where you almost _died_ before?" John asked, twisting on the couch to face his Mate, unable to keep the strained anger out of his voice. 

"Moran is gone; no one will be shooting me today, John." Sherlock stepped around the arm of the couch, sitting down on the cushion next to his Mate and angling his body towards him. 

"All right. So what sort of deal are we making?" 

Sherlock pressed his lips together briefly, his expression pained. "I'm giving him Mycroft." 

John shoved up from the couch, stunned. "You're... what?" 

"Well, not _Mycroft_ , exactly. Rather, I'm giving him the keys to all the secrets of the British government that Mycroft has protected. I knew my brother would bring his laptop with him; he rarely leaves it behind when he travels. Several weeks ago, I arranged a meeting with Magnussen at Angelo's and when you left my hospital room to get a shower at the flat, I left to have a little chat with him." 

"You _left_ hospital? After actually dying on the table from your injury, you walked out of hospital to go have _pasta?_ " John's voice was thin with disbelief and Sherlock made a quelling gesture with his hand. 

"I took my IV stand with me," he said. "And it was necessary to leave hospital to actually see Magnussen. If he'd come to my room with you there, what would have happened?" 

"I would've kicked his head in," John said at once. Sherlock spread his hands in a 'there you go' gesture and John's nostrils flared as he realized that Sherlock was right; he could never have met with Magnussen at hospital with John there. Sneaking out truly had been his only option. 

"Magnussen has agreed to meet with us at Appledore. He is willing to discuss the return of all the documents pertaining to your abortion if we give him access to state secrets." 

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said, raising his hands to his forehead and turning away from the other man. "You can't... you can't give _Magnussen_ state secrets!" 

"If it's the only way to protect you, yes, I can." A fierce expression crossed Sherlock's face as he looked at John. "There is very little I would not risk to protect you, John. Magnussen seeks the end of your life as surely as Moran did; just because his methods are different does not change the fact that he is just as dangerous as, if not even more dangerous than, Moran ever was." 

"But, Sherlock..." John trailed off. He could think of nothing that he could say to convince the Alpha that there were some things that were not worth doing, not even to protect their Mated Omega. Of course, had their positions been reversed, he would have happily dragged the entire country to hell to protect Sherlock. 

John sighed, stepping over to where the other man sat on the couch and cupping Sherlock's face in his hands softly. John stared down at Sherlock with open affection. Sherlock seemed to understand that John's frustration with him had passed and Sherlock's expression softened. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against John's stomach and John ran his fingers soothingly through Sherlock's dark curls. 

After a moment, Sherlock pulled back and glanced down at his watch. 

"It's time," he said, and rose from the couch, striding from the sitting room. With a soft sigh, John followed after him. Magnussen was waiting. 


	18. Chapter 18

John realized as he crossed into the kitchen that the conversation from the other Holmeses had been missing for the last several minutes and as soon as he had fully entered the kitchen, he saw why: all three of them were unconscious, splayed out in different chairs around the room. Sherlock was moving from person to person, checking their breathing with the back of his hand held to their nose.

"They should all be out for the next fifteen minutes, which is more than enough time for us to make our getaway. Better turn the burners off, though, just to be safe," he said, gesturing John towards the stove. 

John moved automatically, unable to believe what was happening. He turned the burners off and then looked back at Sherlock's sleeping family, whispering, "Jesus" as he realized what had happened. "Did you _drug_ your family?" 

"Quick acting and totally harmless," Sherlock reassured him, pulling his Belstaff on and taking his leather gloves from the pockets. "I slipped it into their punch. As I said, they will wake within fifteen minutes. We will be long gone before they do." 

Sherlock slid his hands into his gloves and approached his older brother who had ended up splayed over the table, his arms resting on his closed laptop. Carefully, Sherlock tugged the laptop out from under the unconscious Mycroft. 

"Please, tell me you haven't just lost your mind," John said, glancing back over at Sherlock's parents. 

"I'd rather keep you guessing," Sherlock said, chuckling. He raised his head and turned towards the front door, Mycroft's laptop cradled against his body. "Ah, there's our lift." 

And John realized he could hear the distant thump of helicopter rotors growing louder as it approached. Sherlock scooped John's coat off the back of one of the kitchen chairs as he passed, heading towards the front door. John followed him in a rush after only a slight pause to glance back over the sleeping Holmeses. 

John found himself somewhat unable to believe that he was standing outside Sherlock's parent's home on Christmas Day, watching a helicopter slowly lowering into the field beyond their front garden. The entire day had taken on a distinctly surreal quality. 

Sherlock pushed open the gate and stepped past John, glancing back to say, "This is going to be incredibly dangerous. One false move and we'll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be imprisoned for high treason. Magnussen is, quite simply, the most dangerous man we've ever encountered and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us." 

"Wait, are you saying we _aren't_ actually giving him the laptop?" John asked, stepping up beside Sherlock, his shoulder pressed against his Mate's, and watching as the helicopter touched down on the grass some ways away. 

"Giving it to him, yes. Letting him keep it? Hopefully not. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?" 

"Why would I bring my gun to your parents' house for Christmas dinner?" John snapped, finally letting out his rising frustration at how little he was following the events of the last ten minutes. 

"Is it in your coat?" Sherlock asked calmly, holding the coat in question out to his Mate. 

John snatched it from his hands, his tone furious but resigned as he admitted, "Yes." 

"Off we go then." 

The approach to Appledore from the air was even more impressive than from the long and twisting drive, but John struggled to feel anything but revulsion at the site of the extraordinary building. The last time he had been here, he had been coated in Sherlock's blood as he fought to keep his Mate from hemorrhaging to death from a sniper's bullet. John's jaw clenched as he remembered that horrible night, his arms shaking with fatigue as he fought to keep pressure on Sherlock's wound and Magnussen stood by and did nothing. 

Sherlock's gloved hand reached out, resting lightly on John's knee; as always, he was hyper aware of John's moods and moved to offer some comfort to the other man. John sighed, resting his own hand on top of Sherlock's, and the helicopter began its descent. 

John followed Sherlock out of the helicopter as soon as the pilot gave them the okay, angrily eyeing the security personnel who were waiting at the top of the front steps to the house. One stepped down the front stairs towards them. These were the same men who had come to their flat two months ago and patted them down before Magnussen had deigned to see them. John thought briefly of the gun he had tucked into his coat pocket and wondered what sort of intense search he'd be in for once that had been found. 

When the security men waved them towards the house without patting them down, John felt a flare of relief and then a wave of confusion. Why weren't they being checked for weapons? They were going to be meeting directly with Magnussen in his own home; shouldn't someone check them? 

The security men led them inside, John on high alert as memories of walking through the open, high-ceilinged rooms months before pressed to the front of his mind. All his senses were screaming 'danger,' and John was not going to ignore them. Not this time. 

Magnussen was one storey up from them, sitting on a balcony that overlooked the ground floor of his home. He was splayed comfortably on a white leather couch, a file folder open on his lap, sipping what looked to be whiskey from a crystal tumbler. Everything about him said 'powerful, dangerous, superior' and John felt suddenly very small and shabby. He cast a quick glance at Sherlock and was reassured that his Mate did not seem to be feeling any of the same uncertainties. Sherlock looked as he always did when around people other than John: beautiful, brilliant, and disinterested. 

Magnussen dismissed his security people with a nod and glanced over at Sherlock and John, lifting the crystal tumbler towards his mouth. "I would offer you a drink, but it's very rare and expensive." 

John pinched his lips together, trying not to let Magnussen make him feel any more small and unimpressive than he already did. Sherlock, however, stepped calmly around the glass and steel coffee table in front of the couch and plopped down onto the white leather, settling Mycroft's laptop between himself and Magnussen, obviously unimpressed with Magnussen's show. John felt appreciation for Sherlock slide through him, loosening some of the tension that had wound him tighter than a spring. Watching his Mate act as if the whole encounter was beneath him made Magnussen's elaborate show seem much less impressive. 

Magnussen made a little moue of distaste as he reached down to flip the file folder on his lap shut, glancing over at Sherlock before putting the folder down on the couch at his side. He looked down at the laptop and then back up at Sherlock, taking a sip of his drink again. 

"As agreed, I've brought you Mycroft's laptop," Sherlock said, his tone conversational. "And you will relinquish all documents in your possession pertaining to my Mate, Dr. John Watson." 

"Yes, your Omega," Magnussen said, a faint smile twisting his lips as he raised his eyes to look up at John, his expression empty of everything except a faint hint of distaste. "Your abortion was the best puzzle piece I've received all year, Dr. Watson." 

"What?" John asked, fighting against the urge to resort to physical violence. Everything about Magnussen was repulsive to John, and he wanted nothing as much as he wanted to hurt Magnussen and leave him broken and bleeding the same way Magnussen had left Sherlock. 

"Let me explain how leverage works, Dr. Watson. For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well... apart from me." Magnussen's eyes slid over to Sherlock and he added, "And, now that he's back in the country again, apart from your eldest brother." 

Sherlock went utterly still but Magnussen was speaking again, turning back to John. 

"Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And Sherlock's pressure point is his bonded Mate, John Watson. I own John Watson, I own Mycroft. _He's_ what I'm getting for Christmas." Magnussen held his hand out towards Sherlock despite the laptop being close enough on the couch for him to reach out and take. Sherlock still looked stunned from Magnussen's words the moment before, and he didn't bother looking over at Magnussen as he shoved the laptop across the couch. 

"It's an exchange, not a gift," Sherlock said, his voice tight as he struggled to bring himself back to the moment. He stood from the couch, walking several steps away before turning back towards Magnussen. 

"Forgive me, but I already seem to have it," Magnussen said, stroking the laptop acquisitively. 

"It's password protected," Sherlock said, focusing on Magnussen fully once more, his gaze sharpening and haw tightening as he forced himself back to the problems at hand. "In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to John Watson." 

" _Give_ it to you?" Magnussen said, and his smile slithered across his face as he stared at Sherlock. John shifted uncomfortably, wanting to look away from Magnussen's smile but not quite daring to take his eyes off the man. "Just... trot down to my vaults and fetch it? Would you like to see them, Mr. Holmes? The secret vaults? Is that what you want?" 

"I _want_ everything you've got on John," Sherlock said, his voice and gaze intense as he took a single threatening step closer to Magnussen. 

Magnussen began to snicker, the laughter soft and breathy, hissing its way around the three of them. John shifted from foot to foot, edging slightly closer to his Mate as the sound of Magnussen's laughter slipped like drops of heavy oil across his skin and made him shudder. 

"You know, I honestly expected something good," Magnussen said, his laughter finally dying as he looked up at Sherlock from his comfortable perch on the white leather couch. 

Sherlock gave a small, humorless smile. "Oh, I think you'll find the contents of that laptop -" 

"Include a GPS locator," Magnussen interrupted. "By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and Security Services will be converging on this house." Magnussen glanced down at the laptop and lifted it, drawing John and Sherlock's eyes to it. "Having arrived, they will find top secret information in my hands and have every justification to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I'll be imprisoned. You will be exonerated and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with your _Omega_." 

Magnussen's eyes slid to John and John clenched his jaw, holding the flat gaze until Magnussen finally turned his attention back to Sherlock. 

"Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time," Magnussen confided, setting down the laptop and raising his glass of dark liquid again. "He'll be a very, _very_ proud big brother." He emptied the glass and set it down on the table, smiling slightly. 

"The fact that you know it's going to happen isn't going to stop it," Sherlock pointed out, his voice soft. 

"Then why am I smiling?" Magnussen stared at Sherlock, waiting. When Sherlock didn't reply, he prompted, "Ask me." 

"Why are you smiling?" John asked, taking a single step closer to Magnussen. If Sherlock wouldn't play along to get the answers, then John would. 

"Because Sherlock Holmes has made one _enormous_ mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves and everything he holds dear." Magnussen rose from the couch languidly, moving away from John and Sherlock. "Let me show you the Appledore vaults." 

They followed Magnussen into a nearby study, the lighting low and tastefully subtle, illuminating unspecific artwork the walls and statuary tucked out of the way of solid wood furniture. Magnussen walked confidently through the room to a pair of double doors, gesturing with one long-fingered hand towards them. "The entrance to my vaults. This is where I keep you all." 

John could feel his muscles tightening; if these were the vaults that Sherlock had been searching for over the last few months, he would need to be ready to spring into action at a single word. Both he and Sherlock were still recovering from their recent injuries, but he felt sure that they could take Magnussen if it came down to it. Worst case scenario, he _did_ still have his gun in his coat pocket and he doubted he'd feel any more guilt over shooting Magnussen than he'd felt when he'd had to shoot the cabbie five years before who had been trying to poison Sherlock. 

Magnussen pulled the double doors open and John reared back in surprise. The brightly lit, white-walled room was hardly bigger than a large closet and held no cabinets or stacks of documents. Instead, there was a single leather and stainless steel chair sitting in the center of the room and that was it. 

"Okay... so, where are the vaults, then?" John asked, not quite sure if he was following what was happening. 

"Vaults?" Magnussen asked, turning to stare at John with confusion. "What vaults? There are no vaults beneath this building." He stepped into the small room, sitting down in the chair and gesturing around him. "They're all in here." 

John frowned, glancing over at Sherlock. One look at Sherlock's face told John that his Mate understood exactly what Magnussen was saying; there was no confusion on Sherlock's face. Sherlock stared at Magnussen, wide-eyed and stunned into silence. 

"The Appledore vaults are my mind palace," Magnussen said, gesturing towards his temple. "You know about mind palaces, don't you, Sherlock? How to store information so you never forget it - by picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes, and down I go to my vaults." 

"Stop," John said, stepping forward. "You're saying you _don't_ have my medical records? There aren't any documents? You don't actually have anything here." 

"Oh, sometimes I send out for something," Magnussen said, glancing at his watch as he spoke, "if I really need it. But mostly I just remember it all." 

"But if you just _know_ it, then you don't have proof," John said, face twisting. 

"Proof? What would I need proof for? I'm in the news, you moron. I don't have to prove it; I just have to print it." Magnussen rose from the chair, stepping between Sherlock and John and moving to the door of the study. "Speaking of news, you'll both be heavily featured tomorrow. Trying to sell state secrets to me in an attempt to stop me from leaking the story of a clinic that had been performing illegal abortions on Omegas for years, a clinic where your Mate is rumored to have been one of the recipients of a _very_ illegal abortion, Mr. Holmes." Magnussen gave a small chuckle before gesturing through the door of the study. "Let's go outside. They'll be here shortly." 

"Sherlock?" John asked, stepping closer to his Mate. Sherlock had been silent since Magnussen had opened the door to his 'vaults,' and John was beginning to worry about it. "What do we do? He doesn't have the documents, but he's still going to get me killed. What do we do?" 

Sherlock closed his eyes, an expression of defeat crossing his face as he reached out, pulling John close to him. 

"We don't do anything," he said, his voice low as he pressed a soft kiss to John's temple, his breath tickling against John's skin as his hand slipped into John's coat pocket. John realized too late what was happening as Sherlock stepped past him, raising his voice to speak to Magnussen. "To clarify: Appledore's vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there?" 

"They're not real," Magnussen admitted, smirking. "They never have been. Come outside now; I wouldn't want you to miss your arrest. It should be very exciting." 

"Thank you, Mr. Magnussen; you have been very helpful," Sherlock said, raising John's gun and firing into Magnussen's head from point blank range. Magnussen toppled bonelessly to the floor, arms outstretched towards the study doors he'd nearly been walking out of. 

" _Christ_ , Sherlock!" John screamed, falling back a step as his hands came up to cover his ears a few seconds too late to block the report from the gun. He took in the spray of red against the study doors, the quickly widening puddle around Magnussen's body, and shook his head. Magnussen was dead. The knowledge of John's illegal abortions went with him. But there was no chance for John to even begin to feel relief, because Sherlock was in motion once more, spinning away from Magnussen towards John. 

"There is no time for that now, John," Sherlock said, thrusting John's gun into one of the pockets of his Belstaff. "We have only minutes to make our escape before Mycroft and the police arrive. We absolutely cannot still be within Appledore when they get here and find both Mycroft's laptop and Magnussen's body." 

Sherlock was moving from the study as he spoke and John followed automatically, stepping over the mess of Magnussen's body without even a twinge of sympathy for the man. Sherlock ran down the stairs to the ground floor at a dangerous speed and John tried to keep up, his heart in his throat. They were pushing open the front doors when the rumble of a car engine made Sherlock slow, stepping out into the gathering dusk as he scanned down the long drive to Appledore. 

"Is that Mycroft?" John asked, skidding to a stop beside his Mate, his words broken up by his panting breaths. 

"Mycroft wouldn't have come by car," Sherlock said, moving to the stairs and stepping down slowly. He tensed as a shining black limousine snarled its way up the gravel drive, coming to a sharp, gravel-spattering stop just in front of the stairs leading to Appledore's main entrance. The window in the back of the limousine slowly purred down and a man with short, curly blond hair and a sharp smile leaned out, looking up at John and Sherlock where they stood halfway up the stairs. 

"It's been a long time," the man said, nodding towards Sherlock. "I'll offer you a ride out of here, but only if you bring along the laptop Magnussen was so excited to be receiving today. I'd suggest you make your choice quickly, though; I think Mycroft will be here in the next couple of minutes, and I doubt he'll have anything nice to say to you after you drugged him and stole his precious laptop." 

"Who the hell is that?" John asked, staring in disbelief, as the man pursed his lips, still smirking, and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. 

"Yes, Sherlock, you should introduce me," the blond man fairly purred, raising his chin slightly and quirking his mouth in obvious amusement. 

Sherlock's voice was soft and resigned as he answered. "That would be my eldest brother, Sherrinford." 


	19. Chapter 19

"Sherrinford?" John repeated, turning to look back at the smirking man leaning his forearms on the limousine's window frame. "The one who almost never comes around?"

"I prefer 'Ford,' actually. And you're Dr. John Watson," Ford said, inclining his head towards John before sliding his gaze back to his brother. "We're running out of time, Sherlock." 

"I am afraid I have to reject your offer," Sherlock said, calmly walking down the last few steps of Appledore's staircase and crunching across the gravel, moving around the back of the limousine as Ford shifted to watch him. "I cannot give you Mycroft's laptop, Ford. Good evening." 

John trotted after Sherlock, throwing glances at the limousine. They were moving past the back of the car when the door on the far side opened and Ford stepped out, crunching over the gravel to intercept Sherlock with a hand of his arm. 

"I don't _need_ the laptop," Ford confessed. "I would enjoy having it, but I'd much rather prevent Mycroft from taking you into custody. Come to the car, Sherlock." 

Sherlock paused, narrowing his eyes as he stared at his brother. They were nearly the same height, Ford just slightly taller than his younger brother, and Ford used his height to his advantage as he drew himself up and tipped his head, looking down his nose at Sherlock. 

"You gain nothing by refusing this offer," Ford pointed out, taking his hand back from his brother's arm and tucking both hands into the pockets of his trousers. 

"Why would you offer to get us out of this situation when you gain nothing from it?" Sherlock asked. 

"For fun?" Ford said, spreading his arms. "To complicate Mycroft's life? Because you're my little brother and I still harbor enough familial sentiment to want to keep you from being imprisoned for life for trying to sell state secrets to Magnussen? Thank you for shooting him, by the way; he was outliving his usefulness and I was going to have one of my security men take him out anyway." 

" _Your_ security men?" John repeated, glancing back up towards the house, glowing brightly in the gathering dusk. That would certainly explain why none of the dark-suited, earpiece-wearing security forces had come after them when the gun had gone off. 

"Yes, of course _my_ security men," Ford said, reaching into his pocket to draw out a mobile. He glanced down, reading something on the screen as he continued speaking. "You thought they were loyal to Magnussen? Their loyalty extended only as far as I told it to extend. Can we please continue this conversation in the limousine? We are out of time. We have approximately two minutes before Security Services will be within sight of the limousine and that will make our escape considerably more difficult." 

John looked over at Sherlock, waiting for a decision. Sherlock knew Ford much better than John did. 

Sherlock was still staring at his eldest brother with narrowed eyes. Finally, though, he moved towards the limousine and slid in. John followed after his Mate with Ford bringing up the rear. As soon as Ford pulled the door closed behind him, the limousine was in motion. John was surprised to realize he could not hear the crunch of gravel or the rising thrum of the engine, despite it having been so unmistakable when the car had been coming up the drive towards them; the car had amazing soundproofing. 

"Wise decision, brother mine," Ford murmured, leaning back comfortably on the leather seat of the car, looking across at Sherlock and John. 

"I want to made clear that I will owe you nothing for this," Sherlock said, folding his hands together on his lap as he stared across at his brother. 

"Oh, you will owe me _much_ for this, Sherlock. I do nothing out of the goodness of my heart. But, since you took care of Magnussen for me, I will let you have some breathing space before I ask a favor of you." 

"Breathing space?" John repeated, glancing over at Sherlock worriedly. 

"Several months, at least, to let the two of you settle back into your consulting detective business," Ford clarified, leaning his head back slightly. The gathering darkness of the evening made his deep-set eyes appear darkly shadowed and John tensed as he stared at the other man. "But when I _do_ call on you, I expect a quick response. I am not Mycroft, willing to let you say 'yes' and 'no' on a whim. I've done you a favor today, Sherlock; you'll do me a favor in return." 

"I'll consider it," Sherlock replied, the chill in his voice unmistakable. 

Ford sat forward abruptly, leaning his elbows onto his knees and forcing himself into Sherlock's personal space, causing him to lean back slightly, pressing into the plush seatback. "No, _William_ , you will do exactly as I ask exactly when I ask. Don't forget that you have more precious things in your life now than your little _dog_." Ford's eyes slid over to John, making his message clear. 

Sherlock went very still. The only sign of his ratcheting tension was his increasing respiration. John clenched his teeth together as he stared across the confines of the car at Ford. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock give the slightest nod and Ford relaxed, his smile sliding effortlessly over his face again as he leaned back and crossed his legs. 

"Let's get you back to your flat. I know you're both still recovering from recent trauma and need all the rest you can get if you're to be in top form." Ford leaned out, opening a hidden minibar and gesturing. "Can I offer you a drink?" 

Neither Sherlock nor John responded and Ford made one for himself before closing the minibar. He stared at his younger brother for a moment before turning his attention to John. 

"So nice to finally get the chance to have a proper chat with you, John," he said, smiling slowly as he crossed his right leg over his left, comfortable and at ease. "Of course, it would have been difficult for us to get a chance to sit down together over the last five years, considering I haven't been in the country." 

"On holiday?" John asked, unable to keep the sarcastic note out of his words. 

"You could say that," Ford replied, his smile growing. "More of a working holiday, though. I have interests all over the world; I've been taking a more active role in the running of them lately. It also got me out from under Mycroft's influence. His most recent change of position in the government has made him far too confident of his reach and he's been poking into my business a little too often." 

"Yeah, I had head you and Mycroft didn't get on," John said, a fake smile stretching his lips. 

"Does anyone 'get on' with Mycroft?" Ford asked, swirling his drink in the glass, raising his eyebrows at John. 

"He grows on you," John said, glancing over at Sherlock, wondering what the point of all this was. 

"Like a mould," Ford murmured, bringing his drink up to take a sip. "But I'm not interested in talking about my younger brother. I want to get to know Sherlock's Mate." 

"Not much to know," John said, shifting marginally closer to Sherlock on the seat and clearing his throat. 

"Five years as a surgeon before joining the military where you achieved the rank of captain before being invalided home following a wound to your shoulder and PTSD. Two years as Sherlock's sidekick before becoming his Mate." 

"'Sidekick'?" John repeated, giving a disbelieving laugh. 

"What would you prefer I call you? You followed him around for two years doing very little to help him with the cases he was on, unless you count waving your gun around occasionally. 'Partner' gives you too much credit." Ford paused, taking in John's expression for a moment before he grimaced faintly. "I apologize; I'm being rude. Growing up with Sherlock and Mycroft, I lost most of my tact years ago. Unless I'm trying to manipulate someone, I tend to be blunt. Consider it a compliment that I'm being this honest." 

"I'll try to," John said, shifting on the seat again. He had wanted to punch Mycroft the first time he'd met him; he wanted to kick Ford. Perhaps annoyance was just the normal reaction to meeting the Holmes brothers for the first time. 

"While there is very little love lost between Mycroft and I, John, I am very fond of Sherlock. I was surprised when I found he'd taken a Mate, but once I did a little research into your history, it made perfect sense; you're obviously intelligent and brave, given both your expertise in medicine and your time spent in the military. You apparently have a great wellspring of patience or you would've moved out of the flat you share with Sherlock after a month. Given the nature of the work Sherlock does, it would take someone slightly insane to stick around for any length of time, so you have all the right elements to be the perfect Mate for an Alpha with an addiction to prising the secrets from the hands of the law-breakers." Ford gave a minute shrug, his suit-clad shoulders sliding against the leather seat of the limousine with a whisper. "I couldn't have arranged it better if I'd tried... and believe me, I have tried." 

Sherlock's eyes sharpened as he sat up straighter, glaring at Ford. "That's enough." 

"Wait, what does he mean?" John asked, glancing between the two men. 

Ford held Sherlock's eyes for a long moment, the light from a shop they were driving past catching in them and causing the deep-set eyes to almost sparkle. Ford's lips quirked, fighting a smile. Finally, though, he looked away from his younger brother to finish his drink in a long swallow. "Not just now, John. I think Sherlock has had enough chatting. Better we all keep our own counsel for the rest of the ride." 

John took a breath, wanting to protest, but he caught the look on Sherlock's face and realized Ford was absolutely right; Sherlock had no intention of allowing the current topic of conversation to go forward. Interesting. John filed it away to ask Sherlock later, once things had calmed down. 

John subsided, crossing his arms over his chest as he turned his eyes to the heavily tinted window beyond Sherlock, watching the scenery slide by. 

Ford made himself a second drink and sipped it throughout the remainder of the ride to Baker Street. The limousine had scarcely come to a stop before Sherlock was opening the door and striding across the walk to the front steps of the flat. 

"I'll be in touch," Ford murmured as John slid across the seat. John cast a quick glance back at Ford, narrowing his eyes slightly before he gave a faint nod and followed Sherlock into the flat. 

Sherlock was moving fast, tearing his scarf off angrily as he strode up the stairs to 221B. John caught up to him in the sitting room. Sherlock was at one of the windows overlooking Baker Street, the filmy curtain pushed aside as he glared down. John removed his own jacket slowly, watching his Mate across the room as he hung it up on the coat rack beside Sherlock's Belstaff and scarf. 

"So," John said and then paused, wondering what topic needed talking about the most. Finally, he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and said, "You shot a man. How are we feeling about that?" 

Sherlock tossed a glance over his shoulder, the faintest smile touching his face as he said, "Well, he wasn't a very nice man." 

John huffed out a startled laugh, recognizing the words. "No, he wasn't, was he?" John agreed, walking across the sitting room to slide his arms around Sherlock from behind, resting his cheek on Sherlock's back. 

"John, I feel that I should apologize for accepting Ford's offer of a ride away from Appledore. While it was the only way to avoid both of us ending up in police custody tonight, I'm not entirely sure it was the right thing to've done." 

"I don't follow." 

"Ford has taken an interest in you now. He'll be keeping a watch over the both of us." 

"He apparently dug through our shared history, Sherlock. I'd say he's _been_ keeping a watch over the both of us," John pointing out, turning his face to rub the tip of his nose lightly against the base of Sherlock's neck. 

"No, that was Ford's way of getting to know you. He'll be much more interested in what we do from here on out. If you thought Mycroft was intrusive, trust me when I say Ford is much more so. Within a week, he'll probably not only know every conversation we have within the confines of the flat but also our regular purchasing habits. He might send us a gift basket of your favorite lube; it would appeal to his sense of humor and his sense of duty as a helpful older brother." Sherlock sighed, turning in John's arms until he faced the shorter man, tipping his face down to hold John's eyes. "Ford is completely unpredictable. I can almost always deduce what Mycroft is going to do from moment to moment because he operates logically. Ford..." 

Sherlock's eyes drifted away, his brows drawing down as he stared into the distance at nothing. He was silent for so long that John tightened his arms gently around Sherlock's waist. "Ford what?" 

"Ford does not conform to any pattern that I have ever been able to pinpoint," Sherlock said, and when his pale blue eyes turned back to John's they were full of guilt. "He is untrustworthy and I've put you in his path by accepting his offered ride from Appledore." 

"But he's your brother. I mean, I understand that he and Mycroft have their problems, but surely he wouldn't actually do anything...?" John trailed off as he read the expression on Sherlock's face. When John spoke again, his voice was low and hesitant. "What has he done?" 

"You heard him reference my dog?" Sherlock asked, his voice carefully blank. At John's nod, Sherlock said, "When I was eight, I had an Irish Setter. He was a birthday gift from my parents and I called him Redbeard. He was... immensely important to me. When I was nine, Ford and I had a disagreement. I don't even remember what we were arguing about anymore; it was one of the many stupid things that brothers argue over, I suppose, especially brothers who have almost eight years between their ages. But Ford didn't like that I managed to get the upper hand in the argument. He deliberately left the gate open so Redbeard would get out. Redbeard was missing for over a week before he finally came stumbling back home. Some animal had mauled him while he'd been out and infection had set into the wounds and festered. The vet recommended we put him down." 

"God," John whispered. "That's awful." 

"Ford waited until our next big argument nearly a year later before he let me know that he'd been responsible for Redbeard having to be put down. I'd been pointing out the flaws in his argument when he told me that he'd deliberately left the gate open, knowing that when I let Redbeard out at bedtime for his last wander around the garden, Redbeard would find the open gate and get lost." 

John shook his head, staring up at Sherlock. The idea that an 18-year-old would torture his 10-year-old brother like that... 

"But there were plenty of times when Ford was the one who was there for me, especially when I was growing up. I was an unplanned baby and my parents had a little trouble adjusting to having a young child in the house when their first two boys were getting ready to leave for university. Mycroft was always more interested in furthering his knowledge than in anything as dull as watching out for his younger brother, so it was Ford who would come looking for me when I got into problems with schoolmates. Ford would come to university to take me out for an evening, just to get me away from all the judgment and the exclusion I experienced day in and day out. Ford was the one who found me the first four times I vanished on drug binges." Sherlock shook his head, face twisting. "But eventually, he was too busy pursuing his business goals and the task of watching out for me fell to Mycroft. He stepped up admirably, although I got the impression that he felt completely out of his depth in trying to help his junkie little brother." Sherlock broke off, folding his body until he could rest his forehead against John's shoulder, twining his arms around John's chest. "I've always felt that Ford probably loves me... but that he doesn't much _like_ me very much." 

"Sherlock, please tell me your definition of 'love' is not based on someone who would let your dog out to be killed and then taunt you about it a year later," John said, stroking his hands up and down Sherlock's bowed back. 

"And how would you define love?" Sherlock asked, straightening. "No, don't answer that; you're a romantic, John, and I can guess your definition of love. I don't need to hear it to know that it is ridiculous and based entirely in emotions." Sherlock pulled away from John and reached for his violin, tuning it absently as he turned to look out the window at Baker Street again. "If Ford is coming to me for help, it is only right that I give him whatever help I can; he has certainly helped me enough throughout the years. Anyway, he said it would be a few months before he needed us, so there's no point in thinking of it right now." 

John was opening his mouth to refute Sherlock's words when Sherlock began playing. The conversation was obviously over. John gave a soft, humorless laugh before turning and striding angrily towards the bedroom to get dressed for bed, leaving Sherlock to his violin and his thoughts. 

* * * * * 

Mycroft showed up early the next morning. John had woken up alone in the bed, Sherlock's side of the bed obviously untouched. He'd stumbled out to the sitting room and found Sherlock perched at the kitchen table, examining slides in his new microscope, the old one resigned to the rubbish bin after Sherlock realized that he had shattered a lens and broken one of the couplings that connected the base to the microscope itself. 

John had barely started the kettle boiling when Mycroft was walking into the flat, his expression murderous. 

"You didn't knock," Sherlock murmured to his older brother, not bothering to lift his head from the eyepieces of the microscope. 

"You took my laptop and gave it to Magnussen. The only reason the Security Services did not hunt you down in your flat last night was because I intervened and told them I had given it to you in the hopes of catching Magnussen buying state secrets. Imagine my surprise when we arrived at Appledore and found that one of Magnussen's security men had shot him and attempted to make off with the laptop. We arrived just in time to catch the man attempting to flee with it in his hands." 

"Wasn't that fortunate for you?" Sherlock said, switching out the slides on his microscope. 

"Sherlock, what game were you playing last night? Do you have any idea how much danger you put both yourself and Dr. Watson in by taking my laptop to Magnussen?" 

"I saw Sherrinford," Sherlock said, finally pushing back from his microscope to meet Mycroft's angry glare. At the words, Mycroft's face went utterly blank and he seemed to sag. 

"When?" 

"Last night. He arrived at Appledore in time to be our getaway car. As I understand it, we only just missed you," Sherlock said, resting his fingers on the edge of the table as he stared at Mycroft in the doorway of the kitchen. John set a mug of tea next to Sherlock's stack of slides before leaning back against the counter with his own mug, watching the conversation with interest. 

"I had heard he was back in the country, but I did not expect him to contact you so quickly," Mycroft said, his voice colorless. He sighed softly, raising one hand to rub at his brow. "What did he want?" 

"Your laptop," Sherlock said. "When I refused to get that for him, he must have told one of his security men to retrieve it for him." 

"Of course," Mycroft said, pursing his lips in annoyance. "I should go; I'll need to take measures to insure that his purposes are thwarted for as long as he remains in the country." 

"He also told me that he'll be hiring me to assist him sometime in the next few months." 

"Sherlock, I advise you to rethink your decision to assist Sherrinford with any of his interests," Mycroft said, dropping his voice low as he stepped closer to the kitchen table. "He has become involved in some... unsavory endeavors of late. Anything that he would need your assistance on would put both you and your Mate in peril." 

Sherlock turned slightly to glance over at John where he leaned against the counter, sipping his tea. He turned back to Mycroft and nodded slightly. "I'll take your words under advisement. Is there anything else you need, Mycroft?" 

"So many things," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling for a moment. "I have to go; there are many people that need to be notified that Sherrinford Holmes is moving within the British Empire again." 

Mycroft gave John a quick nod and then he was gone from the flat as quickly as he had come, leaving John and Sherlock alone. 

"Ah," Sherlock said as he glanced down at the table and noticed the mug of tea sitting next to his slides. "Good. This will help immensely. I've just received a text from Lestrade; they've got something that I believe I'll be able to solve before lunch, if you're interested in going out?" 

"Just let me get dressed," John said, setting his empty mug down on the countertop. He paused behind Sherlock, wondering if it was worth pursuing the issue of Ford and his favor at the moment. Finally, though, he simply pressed a kiss to the back of Sherlock's neck and moved back down the hall to the bedroom to get dressed. The Work was waiting. 


	20. Epilogue

**_Three Weeks Later_ **

John stared at Sherlock, unable to hide his amusement. "Is that... are you wearing one of my jumpers?" 

"It's cold," Sherlock said, tugging at the sleeves which did not quite cover his wrists. He was standing on the sofa, putting a couple of newspaper articles up on the wall with thumb tacks, new information for two of the cases he was working on. Each time he reached up to push a thumb tack through the papers, the sleeves of John's jumper rode halfway up his forearms. 

"Yeah, it's the middle of January. It gets cold in the middle of January. But, you're wearing one of _my_ jumpers. I can't decide if I think you look ridiculous or adorable." John walked across the sitting room to press a kiss to Sherlock's waist, the highest he could reach without climbing up on the sofa himself, adding a quick, affectionate pat on Sherlock's arse as he admired the way his jumper ballooned around his Mate's slim body. 

"It made more sense than wearing my coat inside the flat," Sherlock murmured, steepling his hands under his chin to consider the web of information on the wall. 

"Yeah, I suppose it would," John said. He stepped around the coffee table, pausing for a second to stare at the mobile phone perched on the edge of the table. It had arrived two weeks before in a package with a handwritten note from Ford, instructing them to keep the mobile charged at all times and to not use it to make any calls. John hadn't understood the instructions, but Sherlock had been quick to explain: the phone was untraceable until it had been used. Ford almost certainly would be using the phone to contact them when he was ready to call in the favor Sherlock owed. 

Sherlock had kept the phone on the coffee table since then, only moving it when the battery began to get low, replacing it on the table as soon the battery was recharged. It was a constant, daily reminder that Ford would be coming back into their lives at some point, and John was beginning to hate the phone. 

He was contemplating - not for the first time - picking it up and throwing it across the room into the wall when a mobile rang and John nearly jumped out of his skin. 

But, no, it hadn't been the mobile Ford had sent them. Sherlock was stepping down from the couch, pulling his mobile from his pocket and glancing at the number. 

"It's Mycroft," he said, sounding surprised. He answered it, his voice annoyed as he said, "What is it now, Mycroft?" 

He paused, eyes widening as he listened to his brother. He hung up, shoving the phone into his pocket as he strode over to the telly, flipping it on. John stepped up beside him, staring in disbelief. 

Jim Moriarty's face was in the center of the telly, the words 'Miss me?' next to it and a distorted voice was repeating, "Did you miss me?" 

"Moriarty?" John said, his voice incredulous. "But Moriarty's dead. He blew his own brains out." 

The sound of a mobile ringing punctuated his statement. It took John a moment to realize it was the mobile Ford had sent and he turned as Sherlock strode across the room, lifting it from the coffee table as the distorted voice on the telly continued to repeat, "Did you miss me?" 

John switched the telly off, stepping up close to Sherlock and leaning in to listen. 

"Hello, little brother." Ford's voice was as smooth as it had been in the limousine, slightly intimidating in its confidence. "It seems I will need to call in my favor a little sooner than anticipated. But hopefully my little distraction will keep Mycroft busy chasing after ghosts while you're helping me. I'll be dropping by in a few days. See you then." 

John and Sherlock exchanged a glance as Ford rang off, and John could see the rising excitement in Sherlock's eyes. The game was on. 

**\- end -**

_"You said_ Tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and light _and I said_ This is the Moon. This is the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube... _We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want, so I said_ What do you want, sweetheart? _and you said_ Kiss me. _Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back." - Richard Siken, "Snow and Dirty Rain"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading this fic. If you haven't yet, please take a moment to leave Kudos (and, if you are reading this Note at the very end, I assume you enjoyed it enough to WANT to leave Kudos). Comments are my addiction; I love to chat. Don't hesitate to ask questions or just say how much you enjoyed reading.
> 
> Thank you to Nickygp (Tumblr user thetwogaydetectives) who beta'd chapters 1 through 11 of this fic. Any mistakes or typoes after chapter 11 are entirely my fault. Any before are still my fault as her awesomeness can only extend so far in the editing process.
> 
> I am planning a sequel to this fanfic, although I am still in the planning stages at present. As with all my fics, I will be posting daily updates once I begin.
> 
> You can follow my Tumblr for updates and random writerly musings plus reblogs of Johnlock theories and metas that catch my attention: pixchuu221b.tumblr.com
> 
> See you in the next fanfic.


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